


The Daily Grind

by HolmesLestradeWho



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Baristas, Coffee, Hospitals, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Teen Greg, Teen John, Teen Mycroft Holmes/Teen Greg Lestrade, Teen Romance, Teen Sherlock, Teenagers, Time Skips, and cake, lots of cake, lots of coffee, minor government position, mycroft is like 21/22, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-04-07 00:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14068761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesLestradeWho/pseuds/HolmesLestradeWho
Summary: Coffee and Cake. Two of Mycroft's favourite things. It's unsurprising that The Daily Grind, a coffeehouse just outside of Oxford Town, dragged him in with aromatic coffee, perfectly brewed tea and well-baked confectionary. The 19-year-old barista? Well, he's just a bonus.Getting dragged to coffee shops isn't one of Sherlock's favourite ways to spend an evening, especially when he could be doing an endless list of experiments at home in his lab. Luckily for him, a sixteen-year-old waiter was planning on studying medicine and loved Sherlock's genius.





	1. The Beginning (February Year 1)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm D and this is the first fanfiction I've ever posted online.  
> So, this is completely finished (7 chapters), but I am slowly going through and editing what I have written so that it's better quality and there is even more detail.  
> I don't have a beta, but I'm British (from London) so I'd like to think that what I've written is correct for the location!  
> I hope to be posting once a week on a Friday (unless I have deadlines, in which case I might delay the update).  
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

It wasn’t unusual for Mycroft to spend far too long in a comfortable bakery. Any small, warm establishment with expensive, well-brewed coffee and perfectly made confectionary was his guilty pleasure, and so he would often go sit in one for hours with a small novel and go through one too many buns and never enough perfect coffee.

The unusual occurrence was for him to visit one twice.

He visited the university coffee shop like it was a drug den to an addict as he could use the excuse of needing to study, but the local bakeries were a one-time affair. These bakeries had slowly moved further from reach, with Mycroft making the constant excuse of wanting to taste the different rustic coffees and teas of Oxford city (Sherlock teasing him by saying he was closer to Abingdon at this point).

Truthfully, Mycroft never returned to a coffee shop twice due to feeling socially awkward; he would stay until closing time and then feel horrible for wasting their resources despite having likely paid their rent through his coffee and confectionary consumption.

Then there was the Daily Grind. Mycroft had originally been lured into the shop by the smell of strong coffee and sweet sugary treats and had been pulled back by a kind barista. “Will I be seeing you soon? You look like one of those Instagram teens who drink coffee twenty-four-seven and takes aesthetic photos without so much of a blink.”

John was the barista’s name, a hip 16-year-old with a large smile, small stature and a military cut. He’d taken Mycroft back slightly as he hadn’t seemed the type to work in a small coffee shop, but the lad likely lived locally and needed a small job to earn some pocket money.

They’d had a pleasant conversation at one point, with John asking a few questions about the Victorian novel that he was reading, and Mycroft responding with a few details while avoiding spoiling the plot.

Within thirty minutes of leaving the small coffee-room, Mycroft had decided to return; he’d been more than a little disappointed when he’d realised that John was not on duty and instead it was a different, slightly older teenager.

While ordering his coffee, Mycroft was able to deduce that this barista was only here to cover some of his university living costs, and was likely a first year that was studying something to do with crime (there was a small crime text-book poking out the top of his open bag), and that this teen was more closed than John. Mycroft tried not to let his annoyance register on his features.

Having come back on the same day, at the same time, Mycroft had been very hopeful to see John again – he’d practically planned it so that he could see the teen! This, he determined, was the exact reason he refused to visit a coffeehouse more than once.

This stand-offish teen eyed him as he took his seat and began to read, and pushed him to close it again after barely an hour. Perhaps he would look through the windows in the coming days to see if he could spot when John was next on shift, but it was probably more likely that he never set foot in the establishment again. His novel was tucked back into his brown leather satchel, whose handle was carefully placed over his soft cotton jumper so that it didn’t twist in an angry snarl. With an awkward fidget – him rubbing the back of his neck – he got up from his seat.

The cool air outside struggled to fight against his blush, before finally managing to subdue it into a light flush; never again, he confirmed.

After a brief thought of visiting a tearoom, Mycroft sighed softly and began his quiet walk back to the family home. Despite being in his third year of university, Mycroft had chosen to remain living at home due to its close proximity to Oxford, although he had attended a boarding school for sixth-form and so returning home for such a long period of time had taken some adjustments.

Perhaps if he was lucky he’d be able to avoid his slightly irritating (very irritating) younger brother, who might be in the middle of an experiment or even in the garden observing the small bee-hive that had made a home in one of the oak trees.

No such luck.

A clumsy lump of a fourteen-year-old boy ran directly into his chest once he’d pushed the door shut behind him, and had already begun to speak at a speed which could only be understood if you recorded it and then put it on half-speed. Despite an outward demeanour of disliking his older brother, Sherlock’s false animosity would crumble away until there was nothing left of it when they were alone, or if Sherlock was undeniably bored with the rest of the world. There would always be a hint of brotherly disagreement in their discussions, but Sherlock loved to spend his free time with his brother if no-one else knew they were in the same room – Mycroft spent his time teaching him things that school refused to, and would watch over him while he did more dangerous experiments. Hell, Mycroft had even brought him 6 weeks of bee-keeping lessons for his thirteenth birthday.

“You’ll need to slow down, Sherlock, if you want me to understand even a word of what you are saying,” Mycroft said as he placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders to ground him. Mycroft often had to repeat Sherlock’s name, or physically sooth him to bring Sherlock back to the world of the mortal; his thoughts were often far away in an experiment, or his internal monologue would have a running commentary on his surroundings which became distracting when Sherlock wasn’t thinking of anything else.

“Would we be able to do an experiment this evening, My?” Sherlock asked in a voice that Mycroft was incredibly weak to; it was a higher-pitched than it would be normally, and there was a soft pout on his lips as he spoke the words. He looked like a kicked puppy, and Mycroft could barely ever decline his requests.

“I suppose,” Mycroft agreed reluctantly (he had really wanted to read that book). He quickly added, “But you shall have to come to the coffee shop with me tomorrow as payment for my services.”

Sherlock’s head had tilted slightly to the left, and his eyebrows had furrowed in confusion for a few moments. “Why do you want me to come with you – oh!”

“What?”

“Did you think me thick, My? I _deduce_ that you wish to go back to that coffee shop you visited today and you want an excuse. Did you have a disagreement with one of the staff, or did you eat so much cake that you don’t want to be seen as a glutton? Hmm, disagreement from the slight flinch at the comment. I’ll come if you buy me honey on the way back.”

“The condition of doing the experiment with you was you coming to the coffee shop. It’s illogical for you to request anything more and you are treating me like a commoner who hadn’t studied PPE if you expected me not to notice,” Mycroft pointed out, and almost laughed at Sherlock’s pained look.

“But coffee shops are insufferable, especially the kind you associate with!” Sherlock whined. “How about I act like I dragged you in for the honey?”

“I shall buy you honey on the way back. As long as you do as you stated, as well as act on your best behaviour for the majority of the trip,” Mycroft decided and then recoiled when Sherlock spat on his hand. Sherlock had taken to doing this whenever he made an agreement as he’d seen it once on a TV show and had decided that it was, therefore, one of the unsanitary traditions of the general populace. Mycroft had tried to convince him otherwise, but Sherlock had repeated time and again that Mycroft was not a member of the wider community and so would not know their customs.

Mycroft shook his pinkie.

Wiping his hands on his school trousers, Sherlock lead the way to the home lab. The small room (originally guest room two) had been converted into a laboratory when Mycroft had first started secondary school. Once it had been filled with his GCSE notes and his few scribbled experiments, but they’d been removed when he’d chosen to take English, history, philosophy and maths at A-Level and the room had promptly been redecorated to suit Sherlock’s need.

The room had since become Sherlock’s domain, and Mycroft had never been jealous of his younger brother. More scientifically gifted, Sherlock had used this room much more and Mycroft had even been the one who’d suggested that Sherlock get it as a gift for his ninth birthday.

They’d installed a small wooden cabinet since it’d been his which had been filled to the brim with scientific journals and notebooks – they’d likely need another soon as the pile of used notebooks was steadily growing on the furthest edge of the experimentation bench. There were also a few more shelving units which held endless stacks of test-tube stands and had a soldier-line of flasks. Mycroft noticed the creased 400-page notebook on different types of tobacco ash (that particular experiment had caused endless arguments during his first year of study) open to page 347, indicating that he would either need a new notebook, or that he was slowly running out of tobacco types and was trying to fill the remaining pages with his analysis. Sherlock would never admit it, but he hated having unfinished journals. Sherlock remained determined that he’d be able to publish these journals when he was older and so had written them in his best script for them to be typed up at some point. Mycroft has yet to find the courage to shatter his brother’s heart and reveal that no one would ever be as interested in tobacco ash as he was.

After putting on his lab coat, a pair of goggles and a pair of gloves, Sherlock began to explain the experiment that was lined up on the lab table. There were eight test-tubes of water and Sherlock explained how he was researching how different blood types dispersed in water, and whether this would have any effect on helping solve crimes where blood and water were involved. Mycroft decided it was unlikely that there would be anything of interest to come from the investigation, but didn’t mention it.

Sherlock liked to talk while he did experiments, and would often ask Mycroft questions throughout which meant that he wouldn’t be able to pull out his book. A topic that took up some of the time was their parents, mostly Sherlock’s discontent on their leash on his experiments and how anything that involved blood was off-limits despite being able to use a Bunsen burner without supervision. Mycroft’s favourite analogy (Sherlock had more than a few) was that doing an experiment with blood was as dangerous as him playing his violin and he’d been allowed to keep the wooden eye-poking bow in his room.

The experiment took about an hour, and when it was concluded Sherlock let out a heavy sigh. With a deep-set frown, he wrote in his notebook at a torturous pace. With a flourish on the final word, Sherlock capped his biro and dropped it on the counter with a theatrical flair.

“I’m bored,” Sherlock announced as soon as the pen’s clattering noises had ceased. Mycroft pressed his fore-finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose; it was one of those evenings.

“You cannot be bored when you’ve _just_ finished an experiment, Sherlock. Surely there is something more to think about, or perhaps you can clean up the mess?” Mycroft tried, knowing that it was likely a pointless venture. When Sherlock didn’t receive a rush from an experiment, he often became agitated and unoccupied, and subsequently overly-irritating and rude.

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, and Mycroft bit his lip when Sherlock swept the rack from the table-top and let it fall to the floor with a shatter. Another mess to clean, it seemed.

  


A brat wasn’t an adequate descriptor for Sherlock the next morning – he was far worse. Mycroft had been the victim of name-calling more times than he could count, had been mocked about his weight at least eighteen times and Sherlock had caused a small fire with the toaster despite it barely being eight o’clock. Mycroft’s patience was walking on a tightrope as he cleaned up Sherlock’s messes, and he threated Sherlock’s honey after the fire.

The slope towards having a good Sunday was slowly becoming a cliff, and Mycroft could only hope that John would be the barista at the coffeehouse today rather than the stand-offish server from the previous day.

At eleven, after checking the opening times religiously for the past hour (if Mycroft hated one thing it was waiting outside an establishment before it’s opening time and feeling like an idiot) Mycroft ensured that Sherlock was wearing his coat – a lot of protests – and had a few scientific books in his rucksack. Ensuring for a second time that Sherlock wasn’t wearing his jumper backwards or inside out, Mycroft ushered him out of the door.

The heavy door closed behind him with a click, and Mycroft struggled to believe how relieved he was to finally have Sherlock out of the house. After a sour discussion on the behaviour he expected from Sherlock, they even managed a somewhat stilted discussion.

The walk was fifteen minutes longer that Mycroft had anticipated and found himself conflicted as he walked into the coffeehouse. Both of the baristas he had met previously were on duty; John was there, but so was the awkward-encounter teen from the day before.

The two were bantering from behind the counter, joking with each other about John’s height and the other’s lack-lustre Sunday stubble. Mycroft approached cautiously and smiled slightly at John who grinned widely in return. “I’d like – “

“Mycroft!” Sherlock said with a tug on Mycroft’s coat. He’d somehow managed to slither under Mycroft’s arm despite having been at a table a few moments ago. “I would like a hot chocolate, and if there isn’t hot chocolate then your taste in cafés suck and I think we should leave!”

“One hot chocolate then?” John asked with a small chuckle, speaking to Mycroft despite his glaze being directed curiously at Sherlock. “And your brother’s taste in café is rather exquisite as he chose ours, and ours is clearly the best.”

“Mycroft’s opinions don’t count, as he is clearly stupid. And a glazed doughnut.”

“Reading obscure Victorian literature makes you pretty clever, in my opinion,” the other server adds, which surprises Mycroft. Few people recognised such an obscure title, and Mycroft hadn’t realised that the other had been paying that much attention to him.

“He cannot recite the periodic table backwards without writing it down, which means that he’s inferior to my greater intellect,” Sherlock told the older barista with conviction and somewhat of a glare, and Mycroft nearly face-palmed through second-hand embarrassment. Remembering why he often avoided taking Sherlock to public venues, Mycroft somewhat pitied his younger brother for being unable to conceal his intellect which resulted in him being bullied for it.

“You can do that? Amazing!” John said with a large smile. “So that was one hot chocolate, one glazed doughnut and?”

“A tea and a slice of chocolate cake for Mycroft,” Sherlock said before Mycroft could reply. “He really should be sticking to his diet, but he can never say no to a slice of cake.”

“A hot chocolate, a glazed doughnut, a tea and a slice of cake, then,” John confirmed as the other barista imputed the pricing into the cash register. While Mycroft was handing over the money, John concocted Sherlock’s hot chocolate and added whipped cream (with a nod from Sherlock) along with a sprinkle of chocolate powder and a small flake pressed into the white mountain on top. He handed over the drink and a glazed doughnut on a plate, before beginning to work on the tea. Sherlock had already taken his seat at the table and was opening his first book – anatomy – when Mycroft received his order.

Mycroft took a seat at the table next to Sherlock (Sherlock’s things covered the whole of the first, which made sitting at it impractical) and began his own reading.

Time passed quickly in the coffeehouse. Taking regular small sips of his drink and small bites of his cake, an hour had passed by in the blink of an eye. The next hour was somewhat slower than the previous, as Sherlock started chucking insults in his direction whenever he got bored of a particular section of text.

An old grandfather clock struck one. John was efficiently removing his apron (throwing it in his fellow barista’s face) and then ducked under the counter with a laugh. “Oi! Don’t damage the counter shorty – just because you’re small doesn’t mean you can go under the latch whenever you please!”

For a second, Mycroft panicked. Would John leave him stuck here with his embarrassing brother and the awkward barista?

It didn’t last long. To say he was surprised when John pulled out the seat opposite him and sat down with a firm thud would probably be considered an understatement, and he struggled to believe that John was aiming that slightly breathless smile at him. Sherlock quickly distracted the barista and Mycroft almost groaned.

“You’ve decided that you’re going to study medicine, but you’ve decided that you’ll probably do it with the army to avoid fees, and because you enjoy the idea of fighting in a foreign country with the sun on your back. You live with your mother and your sister, and your sister is a lesbian whom is having a relationship with an ex-girlfriend of yours. You’re bisexual, by the way.” Mycroft almost hissed at him to shut up.

“The was bloody brilliant!” John grinned. Mycroft hadn’t expected that response, and neither had Sherlock from the way his face lit up. “Did you research me before you came in?”

“No, you’re just somewhat obvious,” Sherlock said. He continued when John indicated for him to go on. “You’ve been training heavily and you’ve taken to having your hair cut in a military style (which you’re not yet used to due to your subconsciously running your fingers through your hair). That indicated military. You glanced over with interest when I got out the anatomy book, and there are some leaflets behind the counter about medicine so it was a good guess. You clearly have a motherly influence in your life, and yet lack a fatherly influence so it’s likely a single parent household. You clearly have a sibling, and it was more likely female as there seems to be little evidence of another male within your household. Lesbian because there was a post-it note stuck behind the counter saying ‘stop looking at my girlfriend, dweeb’ signed by ‘Harry’. I could also tell that Harry was female due to their script. You are bisexual from the way you look at passers-by. The girlfriend is an ex of yours because you scribbled ‘she’s an ex for a reason, Harry’ underneath in reply and you plan on giving that to her later. I think that’s all?”

“Wow, I’m going to sound like a robot but you truly are brilliant!” He said with again with a grin, before ruffling Sherlock’s hair (to the boy’s irritation) and turning his attention towards Mycroft. “So tell me, what are your opinions on Agatha Christie?”


	2. Gregory (April, Year 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the second chapter, a day later than expected. Sorry about that.  
> Still no beta so all mistakes are my own, and feel free to point them out if you notice any!

Mycroft’s visits to the coffee shop had become a regular affair. He’d visit most Sunday afternoons and stay until closing while drinking his weight in exquisite coffee and devouring many different types of confectionary.

Trailing behind him, Sherlock followed like a lost puppy. The visits to the coffeehouse had become a tradition for the pair, Sherlock carrying a rucksack filled with textbooks, notepads, pens, homework, and a small selection of treats for John. Sherlock the stray had latched onto John with sharp claws and refused to let go.

Mycroft was grateful that Sherlock had a close friend, but he was somewhat jealous that John’s friendship with him had dwindled as a result.

This particular afternoon, Sherlock had been texting John rapidly, texts shooting out like bullets from a rifle. Sherlock had packed and hoisted his bag onto his shoulder before he told Mycroft that they _had_ to go to the coffeehouse _right now_ as John was just finishing his current shift.

“Mummy has finally relented in allowing me to do that experiment into sutures and I thought that John would love to do it with me, so we have to go so that I could tell him all about it and invite him over!” Sherlock spoke at sixty miles-per-hour, adding how the aspiring sixteen-year-old surgeon would really enjoy stitching up the frogs that mother was allowing him to dissect.

Mildly reluctant, Mycroft packed his own university textbook (his final exams were during the next two months and he really needed to revise despite what Sherlock said) and followed Sherlock; he would much prefer to work in the coffeehouse and be slightly distracted by Sherlock having _a friend_ than sitting in the quiet library.

The soothing heat of late spring was comforting against his neck as they walked. Mycroft had always preferred this weather as it meant that he didn’t have to wear blazers, and it was socially acceptable for him to wear just a shirt, tieless and top button undone. It had never been a common thing, but Mycroft appreciated the option being open to him.

They arrived at the staff change-over. Mycroft knew most of the staff due to his regular visits, but he was still weary around the stand-offish, punkish teenage barista that he’d spent an awkward afternoon with just a few months ago. Moody, the teen had never extended their conversation beyond the customer small talk that he was expected to make. And one couldn’t forget the judgemental side-glances that the barista would give him occasionally.

Had he been braver, Mycroft might have considered asking the teen what his problem was.

It seemed his luck that Mr Moody was taking over from John; John had been laughing at something when they’d walked in, and was playfully hitting the older teen in the stomach – a height related joke – when he realised that the Holmes brothers were there. “Hey!”

Smiling shyly, Sherlock waved a notebook towards John as if to say ‘I have something to show you so that I can bask in you telling me how great I am’. Due to Sherlock becoming uncharacteristically shy and awkward, Mycroft had recognised Sherlock’s crush very early on into the friendship and he hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t become disheartened if a relationship never occurred. He was only 14, after all!

John was at Sherlock’s side faster than someone was able to click their fingers, and Mycroft had to admit that they definitely looked inseparable. Glancing over Sherlock’s left shoulder, John read through the research that Sherlock had done, before listening patiently to Sherlock’s almost incoherent ramble about his sutures experiment. “So, please do it with me?”

Fondly shaking his head, Mycroft went up to the counter to order, money already in hand, “A tea and a slice of chocolate cake, and then a hot chocolate with a glazed doughnut.”

He’d been pushing the change into the coin pocket of his wallet when he realised that Mr Moody had said something beyond his usual scripted spiel. Mycroft glanced up. “They’re cute, aren’t they?”

“They are,” Mycroft said with a nod. “However Sherlock is not yet 15 so it’s unlikely they’ll ever pursue a relationship.” The reply was somewhat hesitant and uncomfortable, so he probably looked like a fool.

“John refuses to talk about anything else when we’re on shift together; Sherlock this, Sherlock that. From the way he talked, you’d assume that Sherlock had created the universe and was the person who’d specifically allowed John to be alive. It’s bloody irritating, sometimes,” the older teen told Mycroft with a slight laugh behind his words. “I’m Greg, by the way.”

“Mycroft, although you probably already knew that,” Mycroft replied with a self-conscious blush blooming across his cheeks. “Sherlock’s formed something of an obsession – he usually gets bored by a person after a few weeks and yet he’s done nothing by mention John for months.”

“Made for each other, then.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft replied with a chuckle.

Much later, when John had hugged Sherlock tightly in farewell and had shaken Mycroft’s hand with a confirmation that they should have coffee sometime without Sherlock to catch up – much to Sherlock’s disgust – Sherlock looked at his older brother with quizzical eyes. “Are you aware that a napkin with a mobile number on it has been placed in your right pocket?”

Mycroft faltered in his steps, and nearly stumbled in shock as his eyebrows furrowed. _What?_

How had he missed that? He reached a hand into his blazer pocket and pulled out a napkin that hadn’t, thankfully, been used. Sure enough, there were eleven digits in a messy scrawl across the bottom of the napkin, along with the name ‘Greg Lestrade’.

Surprised that he’d been so unobservant, Mycroft thought for a few moments before concluding that Greg had likely placed it in his pocket when he’d come over to collect their empty cups just before closing time. He pulled out his small smartphone (barely used, only really for the occasional text or phone call and never have had a game on it _ever_ ) and typed the number into his contacts, saving it under _GREG LESTRADE._

_9:39 – Mycroft Holmes – If you wanted my number, you should have just asked. – MH_

_9:44 – Greg Lestrade – I wasn’t sure if you’d want to text me, so I thought I’d leave it up to you whether you messaged or pretended that you’d never seen it._

_9:45 – Mycroft Holmes – Is Greg short for Gregory? – MH_

_9:47 – Greg Lestrade – Sorry?_

_9:48 – Mycroft Holmes – Is Greg short for Gregory? – MH_

_9:48 – Greg Lestrade – Copy and paste, really?_

_9:49 – Mycroft Holmes – If someone asks you to clarify in a conversation, we as English people tend to just repeat the phrase. – MH_

_9:51 – Greg Lestrade – I suppose. I was actually asking why it mattered?_

_9:53 – Mycroft Holmes – I’m curious. – MH_

_9:54 – Greg Lestrade – It is. I’m only telling you to please your curious brain._

_10:00 – Mycroft Holmes – Goodnight Gregory. – MH_

_10:01 – Greg Lestrade – I’m going to regret telling you, aren't I?_

_Contact Name Changed From GREG LESTRADE to GREGORY LESTRADE_

Mycroft put his mobile on charge, a small smile playing on his lips. What an interesting development.

 

The majority of the next week was spent randomly texting Gregory, or replying to Gregory’s own random texts – texting while studying, texting when he was bored, texting him during lectures and even messaging for three hours in the middle of the night when he’d been hit by a spell of insomnia. Mycroft hadn’t been one to text, preferring face to face contact with people, and yet he was now texting like a common teenager (when thinking about this, he scoffed; he was anything by common and definitely no longer a teenager.)

Despite this, he continued to text rapidly until his favourite professor (Professor Ellis) had come up to him after an economics lecture and had asked why he was suddenly constantly on his phone, and asked that he please reduce the amount of messaging as it was distracting his other students. That was when he realised that he probably had a problem.

Mycroft apologised profusely to Professor Ellis with a heavy blush on his cheeks, feeling uncomfortable with this new addiction of his and deciding that he needed to do something about it instantly. He resolved that he would no longer text Gregory at all during his lectures, as well as reducing the amount of messaging that occurred during the day as he was meant to be studying for his final exams which were the most important of his life thus far.

Not wanting the teen to feel rejected, however, Mycroft messaged Gregory four times in a row, each a paragraph, explaining why he would be reducing the amount of texting he was doing, emphasising that it was because of the important exams and not because he would surely feel withdrawal symptoms from the constant messaging in a few months when he actually had a job. Gregory replied within two minutes of the final text, reassuring Mycroft that the reduced amount of texting was fine and would probably help him focus on his first year exams because he _really_ should. Mycroft, however, still felt like he was letting Gregory down and so decided that he was allowed to study in the coffee shop – as long as he was actually studying and not just conversing with Gregory. His presence would surely show his willingness to maintain their friendship?

It had just ticked past four o’clock, the sun shimmering in the sky and the temperature sweltering, when Mycroft was finally released from his last university lecture of the day, a folder of hand-written notes tucked into his satchel and his tie loosened. He dialled Sherlock’s phone number.

“What do you want?” Sherlock said, distracted, and Mycroft recognised that Sherlock was probably in the middle of his homework or some kind of experiment. Despite Sherlock’s seemingly impulsive nature, he had a rigorous schedule on school days which involved two hours of extra-curricular activities and homework when he got home.

“I plan on going to the café this afternoon, if you would be interested in joining me?”

Sherlock clicked his tongue, and Mycroft could hear the tell-tale flick of him checking his watch. “I still have another hour of after-school work yet, Mycroft.”

“It’ll take me at least an hour to return home and get ready,” Mycroft responded, and winced slightly at the mild sound of desperation in his voice. He didn’t know why he felt so nervous to go alone – perhaps because he had no intent of having a drawn-out conversation? – but there was a niggling feeling that he’d probably beg Sherlock before he went by himself.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be a huge annoyance to go to the café. I think John and that Gavin guy are on shift this evening, so I might actually get an intellectual conversation today,” Sherlock mused. “Don’t call me again, or I won’t come.”

Mycroft sighed at the quick change in tone, the ‘Sherlock Snap’ having become more common in the recent weeks as Sherlock slowly recognised himself becoming more mellow. It was a conversation technique that Sherlock had developed to ensure Mycroft knew he was still lacked empathy and was far from a normal human – and definitely to hide the obsession with a certain barista.

It’d become a problem, Mycroft acknowledged, but he knew that mid-fourteen was a turbulent time and this often happened to teenagers; his personal obsession had been a sixth form student named Jeremy that had been nice to him once and Mycroft liked to ignore those few embarrassing months. Luckily, Sherlock had been seven and hadn’t been old enough to understand, no matter his intelligence.

Although even Mycroft could admit what good John had done for Sherlock, and he’d never be able to thank the boy enough (perhaps he’d even helped Sherlock avoid the dreaded realisation moment where Mycroft had accepted that he’d probably never fit in with the majority of society). Not only had Sherlock been politer in conversation, but he’d actively clean up his lab – if John was coming over – and would make an effort to thank people if they did something to help him.

His walk home was a leisurely stroll, and when he returned home he changed from his navy blue suit (his ‘University Suit’) into a pair of beige chinos, a pale blue shirt with a button down collar, a navy sweater and beige chukka boots. He spent too long in front of the mirror ruffling his hair and checking his watch.

Before he managed to knock on the laboratory door, Sherlock opened it with a scowl. His hair was pulled in many different directions, curls a haphazard mess, and he was still in his undone lab coat and wearing his goggles. “Two moments.”

Braving a glance into the lab, Mycroft was unsurprised by the scorch marks that surrounded the Bunsen burner and wondered what his brother had managed to blow up this time.

Sherlock divested himself of the lab coat and goggles – throwing the goggles next to the Bunsen burner – while Mycroft stepped inside and took a look at the work that Sherlock had been doing. He was unsurprised that Sherlock had gotten bored with his GCSE work and so had taken to doing the hypothetical ‘wrong’ experiments that were detailed in the questions.

Sherlock nudged Mycroft with a sharp elbow, shuffling the papers into a green cardboard folder with a glare at the offending paperwork. “Why was I not allowed to complete my GCSEs early, Mycroft?”

“Same reason I wasn’t.”

“Which was?”

“I thought you hated repetition?” Mycroft pointed out, before launching into an explanation when Sherlock jabbed him again with his dagger-like elbow. “Mummy thought it imperative to our development that we socialised with other children our age, and moving through years and doing our exams early would only alienate us further than we alienated ourselves already.”

Mycroft nodded sympathetically at Sherlock’s frown – he’d also detested remaining in school years that were far too easy for him. He flicked through Sherlock’s most recent personal experiment despite Sherlock poking him sharply in the ribs. “Any particular reason for an experiment into the chemicals behind love, Sherlock?”

“Just interested,” Sherlock muttered, distracting himself from experiment by putting away his stationary and using some of his home-made, stickier blue tack to stick up some of his ‘revision’ notes in an attempt to please their mother.

“Nothing to do with John?”

“Well he is claiming to be in love with this new girlfriend of his despite them having only dated for a month, so I was wondering how long this disgusting state of ‘love-sickness’ will last before we can return to talking about normal things.”

“Like blood and crime?” Mycroft said with a slight chuckle.

“Yes.”

“So you’re jealous then?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said in response, not realising what he said for a few seconds before his brain caught up with his absent-minded mouth. A heavy red blush lit up his cheeks, Sherlock pulling at the collar of his school shirt. “I mean, no – not at all Mycroft, how could you – I mean I’m just confused as to why – why – why … fine!” Sherlock face turned towards the floor as he sighed in irritation, and he was clearly thinking about whether John was going to waste their whole afternoon talking about that stupid girl, again.

Mycroft hid his slight smile and light chuckle, and steered Sherlock from the room by his shoulders. Mycroft lead him for most of the walk to the café until Sherlock shook himself out of his embarrassment.

Mycroft began setting up his study station as soon as they arrived at the café, the pile of books acting like the wall to an impressive castle that he hoped would prevent him from falling into an endless conversation with Gregory. Telling Sherlock to collect their drinks today – which he did with heavy reluctance – Mycroft opened one of his three insane law text-books and a beautiful notebook.

Testing the nib of his fountain pen on blotting paper, Mycroft arranged himself so that he looked like the epitome of regret; his forehead was resting heavily on his left hand as his chest heaved and he pressed the pen to the silk paper, pen moving across it in torturously slow demonstration. After the loop of an ‘L’, Mycroft noticed Gregory looming over him.

“I don’t know if I’m surprised by you being a note-writing person. You seem modern and fashionable enough to be typing up notes on a Mac book, and yet traditional enough to be writing with a quill and on parchment like in Harry Potter,” said Gregory in a soft tone, pushing one of his book-walls to the side slightly to place down a cup of black coffee and a small, thin slice of lemon drizzle. Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. “Sherlock said you usually have coffee while studying, so I took the liberty of making this instead. If you don’t like it, I can get you your usual and I’ll pay for this.”

“This is fine,” Mycroft said, quickly taking a slightly scolding but delicious sip of the black liquid with two sugars. “Excellent actually – and in answer to your somewhat question, research suggests that people remember what they have learnt more if they’ve written it down. And, I prefer the way notes look in a nice notebook.”

“You have eidetic memory,” Sherlock butted in. “You have no need to write out your notes; you just do it to be a ponce.”

“Only a bit of a ponce, Sherlock,” Mycroft corrected lightly, not wanting to argue while with non-familial company. Besides, he was somewhat of a ponce.

Gregory’s beautifully melodic laugh made the acceptance of the insult worth it. The nineteen-year-old was grinning towards Mycroft, hand hovering close to his mouth in an attempt to cover it. Mycroft smiled back. “I’ll leave you to your revision, Mr I-Need-To-Study, but feel free to call for a top-up and I’ll create a tab.”

Gregory moved away with a wink, heading back to the counter to serve the customer which was patiently waiting. Finding himself reluctant to return to his notes, Mycroft’s each word was a laborious task and just highlighting a key term would take him at least a minute. Drawing note-boxes in pencil before moving to coloured lining pen (to ensure that the lines were straight and uniform) was another spectacular waste of time.

Mycroft kept a meticulous eye on the time, and had gone through eight shortbread biscuits and five cups of coffee when Gregory came over which an apologetic smile. He moved awkwardly through the tables. “It’s finally closing time,” he explained, but Mycroft already knew that. About two hours ago, John had taken a seat with Sherlock and had started a discussion that Sherlock was mostly uninterested in – probably that girlfriend of his, then – and the rest of the café had been vacated about twenty minutes ago.

“My apologies,” Mycroft said, tucking a few of his pens into his pencil case (incorrectly) in an attempt to look like he’d not realised how late it’d become. Gregory made him pause with a hand on the shoulder.

“No need to rush, just a warning so you had time to pack up,” Gregory told him, before he made a demonstration of going over to another of the tables to wipe it over and place the chairs on top of it. “No need to ruin your lovely stationary in your rush. It’ll take me about ten minutes to pack up, but if you’re alright with waiting perhaps we could walk back together as a group of four. Safer.”

“Sounds lovely,” Mycroft said with a bashful grin. He took out the few pens he’d place into his pencil case and took meticulous care placing each pen in its correct position so that he would avoid having to rearrange them later before bed, and carefully slid his textbooks into his satchel. “You should ring up my tab.”

“I’ll wipe down your table first.”

While waiting at the till, Mycroft took the few quiet minutes to admire the beauty of the small café. It was only about 8 meters across, but it went back for at least 20 meters with a small book corner in the back corner that was filled with many different books that had been collected by the café owner, Mrs Hudson. It had always been mostly quiet at this coffeehouse due to it being a thirty-minute bike-ride from the university town, and as a result it held a rustic and cosy feel. There was a mostly equal amount of tables, small love-seats and small armchairs spread throughout the space, although there was a higher concentration of arm chairs towards the bookshelves so people would have an easier time perusing the novels. The walls were dotted with interesting artworks that had been donated by some of the local inspiring artists, as well as small black chalk boards detailing what the café offered. It was perfect.

John had turned over the open sign so that it read closed as Gregory walked over and swiped his employee card. The machine hummed and spluttered as he typed in the items on Mycroft’s tab, telling Mycroft the total and preparing the chip and pin machine. Ripping the receipts from the machine and piercing one on the spire behind the machine, Gregory was hanging up his apron within a minute. He collected his belongings and said with a delighted sigh, “And done for the night!”

Together, the group of four began their walk home. Mycroft was quietly curious as to how close Gregory lived to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave kudos and comments :D


	3. Relationships (June Year 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this fic so far has been phenomenal so thank you so much!! I'm glad you're enjoying it so far :D  
> D

His final exam had just finished, and Mycroft couldn’t be gladder to be free of endless studying. Exams had always been something he found overwhelming easy (Maths was the exception, but even that wasn’t difficult) and would often find himself sitting in silence for an hour with nothing to do while the clock ticked down the minutes. Others would perhaps check through their work a few times or would rest their head on the desk and sleep, but Mycroft could only read through his work once before finding the task utterly pointless, and sleep had never been easy for him.

To have finally finished his third year at university was a relief; he had a short summer of four weeks before he began his career as a civil servant and would slowly climb the ranks. Due to the two-hour commute to London – there and back again – Mycroft was disappointed in the lack of time he’d have to spend with Gregory, although he knew that it would probably help him study for his second year of university.

In celebration, Mycroft had promised Gregory that he would come to the café that summer afternoon and was relieved to arrive home and change from the stuffy university wear. He had a brief shower to get rid of the thin sheen of sweat he’d accumulated over the course of the day, and then changed into his favourite outfit: a pair of black suit pants; his black oxford shoes; and his monogrammed shirt that mummy had brought for his birthday two years ago. He rolled up his sleeves slightly and sprayed some cologne on his wrists and collar bones.

It was just after two when he left the house and walked to the coffeehouse – without his bag and carrying just a small novel in his right hand. Had he not been so averse to exercising in public, this would’ve been a nice cycling route.

Stepping into the café and hearing the irritating bell (it had been installed two weeks previous and _everyone_ hated it), he smiled towards the counter. It faltered when he realised that Gregory wasn’t working. He’d told the other that his exams finished at twelve and that he’d be here by two-thirty with Gregory assuring him that he’d be there, so why wasn’t he at the counter smiling that beautiful grin?

His teeth worried his bottom lip as he ordered his drink at the counter. He pushed the change towards Mrs Hudson who liked to pick up any extra shifts and took the cup with a small, unsure smile. Had Gregory gotten the wrong day, or had he been stood up for something better?

Mycroft almost didn’t notice someone sitting at his usual table, and probably would’ve subconsciously diverted to another had he not recognised the wide smile on the person’s face.

Gregory, in a shirt with the top button undone and well-fitted chinos, was sitting at his usual table with a drink in front of him and a slice of chocolate cake in front of the seat opposite. Mycroft blushed, noting how obvious he must be if Gregory was able to correctly assume that he wouldn’t buy a snack and ordered one for him based on this knowledge. He took the seat with a red tinge on his cheeks, and Gregory’s grin only widened.

“How did the exam go?” Gregory asked when Mycroft had taken a small bite of the chocolate cake and they’d each taken a few sips of their respective drinks. His head was tilted to the side with an expression of curiosity.

“I believe it went very well. My brother would say I’m being modest as I’ve got a 96% average on exams, but I would prefer to avoid being over-confident in my abilities as it only irritates others and has a correlation with under-achieving. Call it a superstition.”

“I’ll be over-confident for you then,” Gregory said. “You’ll get a first with ease, and I could easily place a bet on you having the highest final exam score ever.” He then made a hand gesture which resulted in Mrs Hudson bringing out the large chocolate chip cookie which was the café’s speciality and giving it to Gregory with a soft kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson!”

“How did your end of year exams go?” Mycroft prompted. “They finished last week, correct?”

“Yeah, I’m so glad they’re over,” Gregory huffed a laugh. “I probably flopped them completely; I’ve always been horrible at exam technique and timing, so I’m unsure why I thought that university would be the correct course of education for me.”

“Well, you had the grades to get into Oxford,” Mycroft countered, knowing that it was unlikely that Gregory got anything less than three As at A-level. “And even so, you’ve pursued university because you wish to become a detective inspector, and you decided that Law was the best course of action for you.”

“I suppose. I think I shocked a lot of people at a-level, though, because so many people told me I was aiming far too high, despite my predicted grades. Maybe I only succeeded because I wanted to prove them wrong. Without that motivator, I might not get the grades I’m hoping for.”

“Self-deprivation doesn’t suit you,” Mycroft mused. “I suspect you’ve done well, and even if you aren’t pleased with the grades you have two years to improve them. Think of your motivation as wanting to prove to everyone that you have what it takes to become a detective inspector.”

“I guess.”

“I’ll help you study if it’s needed,” Mycroft told him firmly. He then drank the dregs of his tea and ate the last bite of his chocolate cake while Gregory finished his own drink and large cookie. On a whim, he suggested, “Let’s go for a walk to the park.”

 

While they were walking through the park, they spoke quietly to one another. They discussed a million and one topics as they walked through slowly, admiring the soft green of the grass and the grand oak trees that peered from either side. Mycroft would occasionally run his hand along the bark of one, recalling how he’d once carved into the bark of one of these trees with Sherlock, naming himself Captain and Sherlock his first mate. “He’d been particularly into pirates; he was certain that he’d be one when he was older.”

When Gregory tugged him behind a tree, he forgot his current conversational topic and stared at him like he’d gone completely mad and had started pulling his hair from his scalp. “Look over there,” Gregory hissed.

It was four o’clock, which meant that Sherlock should’ve been in his lab doing his school work or an experiment like his weekday timetable dictated, and yet the boy was sitting on a tire swing that had been attached to a tree a few feet away. Mycroft froze, not even breathing, as he watched Sherlock hold onto John’s hand and pull at his fingers in curiosity; they were almost holding hands, but Mycroft couldn’t place if they were, or if this was some experiment that Sherlock had decided he needed to do to prove a hypothesis. Had this been happening often?

Gregory was more curious than Mycroft, arching his neck so that he could get a better look, and murmuring a constant commentary that fell on death ears. Gregory mentioned something about staying out of view and observing the couple (?) for a while before confronting them and Mycroft was too conflicted to suggest otherwise.

They’d been sitting for ten minutes when Mycroft got a text-message from Mummy asking if he knew where Sherlock was, and it shook him from his shocked stupor. This was interesting; if Sherlock hadn’t told Mummy where he was going, then it suggested that this was something secretive. He replied with a ‘No’ – Gregory teasing him for lying – before he raised his gaze to fix it on the pair.

“I swear John was dating a girl in his year less than two weeks ago,” Gregory murmured, which Mycroft had nodded in agreement with. He could recall Sherlock complaining about that girlfriend less than four days ago; was it a recent development, or had that girl been a way to divert attention from their secret relationship? “I feel like a spy,” Gregory interrupted his thoughts with a giggle.

“This is nothing like what a spy actually does.”

“They do in the movies.”

“Movies are fiction and decide it’s more convenient to create a more exciting universe than make movies about the actual things our secret service solve during their working hours. Spy work is completely different – it’s mostly paperwork and sometimes looking at classified documents in an attempt to piece together a narrative for an arrest. Very little over-hearing conversations and even less going under-cover to become friends with your target.”

“Huge liabilities?” Gregory asked, knowing to avoid asking why Mycroft knew far more about this topic than he should. Mycroft confirmed his thoughts with a nod.

“Look!” Mycroft suddenly hissed. Gregory followed his gaze and landed on the two just as Sherlock – who was blushing bright like their mother had applied her blusher on his cheeks – was lead into a soft kiss by the just seventeen-year-old. Perhaps Mycroft should’ve felt more protective of his younger brother considering the age difference and John’s tendency to go through girls like he did glasses of water, and yet he couldn’t feel his blood boil. Sherlock rarely held an obsession for anything, and this obsession with John had proceeded passed the bee obsession.

It wasn’t a long kiss; long enough to be more than a peck but barely any longer. They separated, Sherlock, giving John a small, shy smile, and Sherlock resumed his playing with John’s fingers. From some lip reading, Mycroft could tell that Sherlock was confirming that he wasn’t too harsh, or clumsy, and John’s warm smile made him confident that this might just be the best thing for the pair. The pinning had been intense on both sides, according to Gregory.

“I’m happy for them,” Gregory added after a few moments of silence, and Mycroft felt a soft, gentle presence against his hand. He was mildly confused as to why Gregory was covering Mycroft’s hand with his but decided to ignore his immediate questions and enjoy the touch, the reassuring gesture.

“Yeah.”

 

Two months had passed before Sherlock and John announced their relationship to their close friends and family. Sherlock declared it at a meal with a bashful smile, and John had a dusting of red on his cheeks, both looking so young and yet so happy. Mycroft found himself being even more accepting of their coupling.

Gregory had been the one to ask if they were boyfriends. Sherlock corrected him immediately by telling him that they were ‘partners’ – they were serious about each other and the term boyfriend suggested that they weren’t sustainable. And they were partners after all – partners in crime and partners in love. There were also some sickening pet-names that the pair shared, and it made Mycroft regret reading Sherlock’s messages over his shoulder; he had not needed to know that Sherlock happily called John ‘love’ and John in turn called Sherlock ‘sweetheart’ or ‘my intelligent detective’.

There had been a few hectic moments shared by the two, once when the pair had caused a small explosion in Sherlock’s lab, and another when John and Sherlock had somehow gotten animal organs to practice sutures on. Sherlock justified it by saying John needed practical experience for when he goes into medicine, while John had said that they’d brought them from the butchers, so was there really any harm?

In those two months, they’d definitely grown as people. John had focused more on his studies, while Sherlock leads a more spontaneous but balanced life. Sherlock had started exercising regularly (which lead to the discovery of his knack at tennis) while John was learning how to observe rather than watch, and received some pointers on how to write up his lab experiments at school.

Mycroft, similarly, had grown too. Those two months saw him get his first for PPE and begin his life as a civil servant while learning some essential skills for his future. He’d learned how to time manage, and how to cancel plans without the sense of dread that used to accompany it, and learnt how to have friends while working hard the majority of the time.

He’d already been promoted once and was receiving another at the end of the month (work had been thoroughly accommodating and had accepted his request to have an evening per working week free – Thursday currently). He’d taken to spending those free evenings one of two ways: entertaining Gregory while he worked his shift at the café, or helping Gregory learn his course material. After receiving a 2:2 for his final exam, Gregory had resolved that he _was_ going to do better, even if just to please Mycroft. If Mycroft, a genius, could believe in him, then he could definitely believe in himself.

The pair loved their Thursday meetings; both looked forward to it with a grin plastered across their face and their friends (Gregory) and work colleagues (Mycroft) would sometimes question why. Mycroft had it circled viciously as the day approached, his small habit of circling the afternoon slowly ruining his diary. On Gregory’s side of the pond, his friends would notice the impossible increase in conversation based on his afternoons with his best friend.

Taking to teasing Gregory, Sherlock liked to make kissy faces at him whenever him and John were at the coffeehouse and would throw comments about the pair finally getting together. John would sometimes add to the teasing during his shifts.

One Thursday afternoon in early September Mycroft was sitting in the café waiting for Gregory to arrive. He was flipping through the dull Mirror which had been left on one of the café’s window-sills, trying to fill the time. It was full of horribly boring articles about celebrities and their children, infidelity and mildly more interesting sports commentary.

The shop was mostly empty. There was the quiet chatter of a couple a few tables away from Mycroft and the soft whirring of the coffee machine as the barista made a macchiato for his break. Mycroft had ordered their drinks when he’d arrived about eight minutes ago, laid out neatly before him.

Announcing his arrival, the annoying bell shrilled as Gregory skidded through the café entrance with a pant. He grinned widely at Mycroft as he sat down and took an appreciative sip of his drink, a soft moan of delight accompanying.

“Sorry I’m slightly late,” He said in between sips. “I was talking to the professor we’ve been assigned and he _would not_ stop! He kept murmuring on about absolute nonsense and even managed to mention his cats in the midst. I only managed to slip away due to someone else having a question, or else I would have probably been there until the early hours of tomorrow morning!”

“Ouch,” Mycroft winced in sympathy. “I had far too many professors exactly like that. PPE lecturers all seem to have inherited one thing from their interests in politics: being able to talk for Britain without having anything to say! It was even worse when they requested to speak with you, rather than it being the other way around.”

Gregory’s hearty laugh made Mycroft smile. He loved that laugh more than anything else in the world –  if you threw warmth, friendliness and social awkwardness into a blender, the result would be this laugh. Like rum, his laugh warmed Mycroft up and it felt like the softest blanket had been laid over his skin.

Gregory took to pulling out some textbooks from his rucksack, arranging them neatly on the table between them, never stacking too high encase of accidentally creating a wall. His pencil case was thrown on the table next, landing against one of the taller stacks (outer edge of the table), followed by the soft slapping of his notebooks against wood. He passed over the thicker notebook, the one with his messier lecture notes while opening the thinner, clearly neater one.

This was their habit; Mycroft would look over Gregory’s messier notes and make comments on what he had written, and clearing up as many of the margin question marks as he could. Occasionally, Mycroft would tut – more to himself – and mention how the textbooks were out of date and the criminal process was nothing like that anymore!

Once Mycroft had looked through them, he asked, “Have you decided to take up any interesting extra-curricular clubs? I’m curious because Sherlock mentioned how he’d finally been allowed to join the Crime Society. He claims that he got down on his knees and begged because he was that desperate.”

“I was the one who let him in,” Gregory replied casually, ignoring the way Mycroft almost spluttered while taking a sip of his tea. “And he definitely did not get on his knees to beg. I’m technically the treasurer and we received a few letters that might be considered begging, but there was definitely no getting down on his knees. We had a meeting and I convinced them that it couldn’t do much harm – in fact, they’ve organised three trips to famous crime scenes and museums so far so the society is pretty pleased.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were the treasurer for the society!” Mycroft said with a small chuckle. “I don’t know if I am surprised that Sherlock neglected to mention it, but you?”

“I’m surprised he didn’t tease you.”

“Very true! I would’ve thought he would’ve at least tried to tease me during those few evenings a week where he plagues me with his presence,” Mycroft mused.

“Perhaps he thought you deduced it,” Gregory teased, before shrugging his shoulders and taking a sip of the bitter black coffee that was his favourite beverage. After a stretch of silence that was filled only with the scratch of biro on paper, Gregory asked quietly, “Are these dates, Mycroft?”

“Pardon?” Mycroft looked up from the notes he was editing, looking at Gregory’s sheepish expression and turned down eyes.

“Nothing, don’t worry. Just something silly that Sherlock said that must have got into my head,” Gregory murmured quickly. “I’m sorry, just thought I’d get your opinions on the matter.”

“Would you be opposed if they were?” Mycroft’s fingers twitched in anticipation.

“No.” Pause. “I’d quite like it if they were, actually.”

“Perhaps they should be then,” Mycroft mused, subtly pressing the tips of his two longest fingers again Gregory’s. He smiled gently, pointing towards a word that was misspelt a few times in Gregory’s work. “Two Ps.”

“Cheers.”


	4. Together (June Year 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this instalment! It was a little later than I wanted.  
> Next chapter should hopefully be up on the 27th :D

Time changes people.

Shaking, heaving, withering, Gregory suffered a horrendous breakdown a few days before their one-year anniversary. Wrapped in three soft blankets with damp skin, Gregory would whimper at even the slightest unexpected touch and would curl away, further and further into a ball, from human contact. He’d stare mindlessly at the wall and make pained moans if Mycroft tried to fill the silence with soft music or gentle ambient noises; sometimes he would allow the gentle touch of a cold cup of water to his arm, but this was usually not the case. Mycroft, reluctantly, could do little but sit in silence, waiting for the internal panic to decrease.

He’d taken to quietly writing his reports in one corner of Gregory’s room, weakly smiling at his unseeing eyes if they so happened to land upon Mycroft. It’d been a harsh week, and Mycroft had not been in the mindset to head into work; luckily, he was high-up in his position and was well respected and so he’d yet to be fired. That, however, was unlikely to be allowed to continue much longer.

It was on the second day that Mycroft had gently laid one of his jumpers on the edge of Gregory’s bed, and it was slowly, slyly pulled on. It hadn’t been removed since.

How had it started? It was a date night; Mycroft had accidentally slammed the door behind him that shocked Gregory into dropping the bag of souvenirs they’d brought back from a science museum. Upon finding the clay replica of a human body broken in two, Gregory had similarly broken and the initial panic remained high. Mycroft had been beating himself up since.

They’d discussed some of their “relationship-breakers” early on, including their mental health issues and any ugly habits. Mycroft had brought up his struggles with eating disorders and body image – and his habit to over-exercise as a result – while Gregory had shyly explained that he suffered from General Anxiety Disorder (which was why it’d taken him months to even say a friendly “hello”) and heavy panic attacks. The fact that Mycroft hadn’t noticed the signs of overwhelming anxiety was something that hurt.

Upset by the disappointing grade he’d received at the end of his second year (only a 2:1 when he’d been so desperate for a first), Gregory had slowly begun to pull away from his boyfriend in a quiet way. It’d been gradual, with Mycroft simply receiving fewer texts as the weeks went on – it didn’t surprise him as even the obsessed John and Sherlock had slowly reduced the amount they felt they needed to contact the other. Beating himself up about it, Gregory had clearly considered himself useless and unworthy.

Filled with a stew of guilt and love, Mycroft looked after his boyfriend full time: he called the university to explain the situation; provided clean clothes for Gregory despite him not making use of them; cooking meals that were left uneaten; preparing cups of tea every single hour regardless of two thirds of them remaining completely untouched and the rest having only been sipped.

Watching his mostly unmoving body hurt, and knowing that he only moved to use the toilet so as to not wet himself burned. The unmoving tear tracks on his cheeks, red roads towards his chin, was a sharp stab to the heart.

Mycroft continued to sit in his armchair and watch. Mycroft just continued to be.

 

Like walking through a snowstorm, the week was a slow venture with little show of improvement; Mycroft had considered taking Gregory to the hospital four or five times over the week, but ultimately decided against it as Gregory still ate and drank enough to stay alive.

Many people had brought ‘Get Well Soon’ cards to be displayed on the bedside table and window-sill. Mycroft, after three days, had unpinned all of Gregory’s revision – storing it away carefully – and replaced them with some of the nicest cards hoping it would help Gregory. There had been little evidence of such.

Every time a card was received, Mycroft would murmur about how much everyone loved him and that they were all there for him. “Even in your failures, you’ll never be alone Gregory. I won't stop loving you because you didn’t get the grades,” he’d muttered more times than he could remember.

Sherlock and John had visited a few times that week, bringing Mycroft groceries and respite. While they would sit with Gregory, Mycroft would take the few hours to shower and have short naps. Gregory got worse in those hours, and Mycroft felt horrible about the pleasure he felt from noticing his effect on Gregory.

It was only on Mycroft’s last paid day off that there was any sign of recovery. Luckily, it was enough to ensure that Gregory was going to be okay.

On that day, Gregory spoke for the first time in four days, and more than he’d had since the initial panic attack. His voice was brutally rough from lack of use, and yet Mycroft couldn’t think of a time when his word had been more beautiful: “Can you fetch me a glass of water and then lie next to me?”

Mycroft complied instantly; he gathered the glass of cool water with a feeling of triumph and, after handing it off to Gregory, took a seat on the edge of the bed. Gregory urged him to lie down, voice slightly stronger, but Mycroft refused.

“I don’t want to over-sensitise you after a long-term state of panic, Gregory. As much as I would love to cover you with kisses and warm you with soft cuddles, I believe it would likely be counter-productive. We’ll start with small touches and if you’re still doing well before bed we’ll snuggle,” Mycroft replied calmly, shifting his legs onto the covers and making it so that they rested lightly against his side. To his surprise, Gregory threw his arm across Mycroft’s lap.

“Thank you so much for caring,” Gregory murmured, hiding his face slightly against Mycroft’s thigh. “No one was ever caring enough to do this for me. Thank you.”

“It’s no problem,” Mycroft replied softly with a smile. “I love you and you love me so this is very little; I have already decided to spend as much as my life as you’ll allow looking after you.”

“Thank you,” Gregory muttered again. “I’m not up for it just yet, but in a couple of hours, I would really like a hot shower to make up for the lack of showers I’ve had this week. My hair is waxy, my skin is sweaty and I frankly feel disgusting – don’t even start me on the feeling of my teeth.”

“Whatever you need, Gregory,” Mycroft replied with a small smile, gently carding his fingers through the greasy fringe. “I’m so relieved that you’re feeling better. I had considered taking you to the hospital, but I admittedly didn’t know what they would do to help and I doubt you would’ve been comfortable there.” A short pause. “Has this happened before?”

“Yeah,” Gregory admitted. “I probably should’ve told you when we talked about deal breakers that the three months before GCSEs were a nightmare; I started to not eat, and got psychosomatic headaches and stomach-aches. I was stressed out of my mind because I failed almost every single one of my mocks. I wasn’t even likely to get into college, let alone university – I seemed to have no future. About a three weeks before my GCSEs I had a week similar to this where I was in the hospital for three days before they let me home.

“I would have warned you that this was coming – even I should have noticed the signs. Just thought I was getting ill. You’d expect someone to notice when they’re about to step off the edge of a cliff but, despite all the clues, I never seem to realise.”

“Try not to worry about that,” Mycroft said. “I know you worry regardless, but at least know that the only thing I feel is an unadulterated relief – you went through this in my presence rather than by yourself.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s honestly not a problem.”

“No, I truly, truly mean it. I’ve had girlfriends, boyfriends, partners dump me in the past because I’d have a small panic attack in their presence, and yet you’re still here after _this._ Once, one wanker dumped me in the middle of one. Like that would make me come to my senses and stop.”

“Those people are inhumane. It’s not like you chose to force yourself through these horrible events; who would choose this?”

“No one, that’s who,” Gregory replied gravely. “ _This_ is shit, and I’d happily never ever go through this again. I’m so thankful you’re still here as life without you would just be weird.”

“Agreed,” Mycroft said with a soft nod. “You have forever changed my life.” He then swallowed, gently stroking the skin of Gregory’s arm. “I dislike being the bringer of bad news after such a horrendous week – I had meant to tell you after our date – but work requires me to go out to Sweden for two weeks at the beginning of next month.”

“You can’t help that,” Gregory replied, tapping Mycroft’s thigh in reassurance.

“I still wish that I wouldn’t have to leave you. You don’t need that right now, and I’m struggling to imagine two weeks of only being able to call you to ensure you’re alright.”

“I’ll force Sherlock to send you updates,” Gregory suggested with a small grin.

Mycroft smiled back. This boy knew him so, so well.

 

In the few weeks leading up to his trip, Mycroft spent the majority of his time reassuring that Gregory was alright. Many would argue that he was being disgustingly overbearing, yet Gregory found it endearing and would easily fall into the pattern of responding to the spike in over-protectiveness, for he knew it was just that: a spike.

During his work hours, Mycroft would send texts regularly, trying to appear extremely subtle which would make Gregory giggle. They had a running conversation throughout each day with short bursts of text messages and a longer relay during Mycroft’s lunch hour; the topic varied from day to day and from murder to politics to planning some aspects of their future.

Then, in the evenings, Mycroft would visit Gregory’s dorm cook him meals if he was home before 9 PM, often making enough to feed the rest of Gregory’s corridor. Many of his neighbours liked to say that Mycroft was ‘sent from heaven’. They’d also coo when their goodbye ended with a soft, chaste kiss.

The first Thursday after the breakdown, Mycroft put incredible thought into their date night. The original plan had been to attend a classical concert that they’d both expressed interest in at one point, but he’d shuffled their plans so that it was changed to a quiet meal in a small pub. Just outside of Oxford, the small corner building was cosy and quiet and mostly empty.

Mycroft knocked on date nights. It was a small romantic gesture, and so he wrapped his knuckles on the wood while dressed in smart-casual.

When the door opened to reveal Gregory – still shy despite the year, and dressed in black jeans and Mycroft’s jumper (dry-cleaned since) – Mycroft split into a wide smile. Unhooking his jacket from its peg, Gregory asked, “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Mycroft said with a gentle kiss to Gregory’s cheek. “You look absolutely beautiful. It makes me insanely happy to see you wearing my jumper.”

“Where are we off to tonight?” They walked side by side down the stairs, holding hands while Gregory had a soft blush like a teenager.

“A beautiful pub that is about 20 minutes away. Sherlock recommended it, said he’d taken John there and it seemed perfect for us.”

“I bet they had sex afterwards,” Gregory laughed when he saw Mycroft’s nose twitch. With a soft slap, Mycroft whined about how he didn’t want to think about his younger brother having sex with his boyfriend and it would put him off his food. “It’s all John talks about – Sherlock this, Sherlock that, sex with Sherlock is fabulous.”

“So the only difference in his conversation with you is the intimate relations they now share? Absolutely delightful.”

“Agreed,” Gregory said with a chuckle. They entered the small pub, and he realised that he’d have to thank Sherlock because this place was _perfect._ He found it much more comforting than some of the more upscale restaurants they’d been to in the past, and just a glance at the menu told him that the cuisine was also more preferred. Lead to a small table in the corner, Gregory smiled at the small candle.

They placed their orders: Mycroft ordered a small salad for a starter, a five-ounce stake for his main and a small slice of cake for dessert; Gregory ordered a shrimp cocktail for his starter, hunters chicken for his main and an ice-cream sundae to follow; then there was the pitcher of American lemonade that sat in between them. At one point, Gregory placed his hand on the table and Mycroft covered it.

Mycroft stomach still fluttered when they made eye-contact over the meal.

Cheekily, Gregory flicked a solitary pea towards Mycroft after finishing his main and Mycroft playfully returned by dipping his fingers in his glass and flicking them at Gregory. They broke into laughter and crazy grins, and the servers likely thought them insane.

Mycroft squawked, a blush rising flush across his cheeks at the sound, as Gregory dolloped a scoop of his ice-cream on Mycroft’s plate. He further protested when a mouthful of his cake was taken in return. “We’ll share,” Gregory told him.

Mycroft pouted but ate the rest of his cake, dipping each bite in the soft whip. With a swipe of his thumb, Gregory removed the residue around Mycroft’s mouth and sucked softly on his thumb which enhanced the blush from a rouge to fire-engine red. With a chiding hiss, Mycroft muttered, “Please stop.”

Gregory grinned. “Thank you for this evening, Mycroft, I’ve loved it.”

“It truly is my pleasure,” Mycroft replied, squeezing the hand he still had a tight hold on.

 

Both would agree that the evening of Mycroft’s depart was a nightmare. It was one of the worst, one that left you tossing and turning in bed until you were a caterpillar trapped in a cocoon, fighting to get free.

Pathetic fallacy seemed to be at play with biting winds and heavy rain that batted against Mycroft’s black umbrella. They were huddled underneath it, Gregory hidden in his side. He’d accompanied Mycroft to the airport terminal and was now soaked through – it was a perfect metaphor for how he felt.

Mycroft was similarly sodden, and it was only thanks to forewarning that he wasn’t dressed in an uncomfortable suit. Everything that he was wearing was borrowed from someone: the trousers had come from Sherlock; the t-shirt from John; and the jumper from Gregory. The soft lining was comforting, and Mycroft already knew that this jumper would be worn in the evenings when he was feeling lonely.

They’d been attached, almost like they’d been sown together, since somewhere between leaving his apartment and getting in the unmarked car. The solid grip indicated that there was no chance of Gregory letting go until he _had_ to. He swallowed.

Turning towards Gregory to say his goodbye was horrific. Countless scenarios flew through Mycroft’s mind, filling his every thought regardless of their likelihood. What if this was the last time? The mission wasn’t classified as dangerous, but assassination was always a risk at his level. Despite every attempt to stay completely calm, Mycroft’s arms began to shake as he held Gregory as close as possible. His breathing pattern became more rapid; each breathe more shallow.

“Hey,” Gregory murmured softly against his side, one hand rising to press against Mycroft’s cheek. Skin to skin, to try to reassure. It was slightly awkward, but Gregory did his best to look Mycroft directly in the eye from his angle. “I thought we agreed that I was the only one allowed to panic, ay? Hey, hey. It’s all going to be okay, Mycroft.”

Mycroft didn’t cry. That was something that he’d never entertained the idea of, so the salty tears piling against his upper lip was a surprise. He leaned closer to his partner, gently gripping his hips. They were in this together, and they’d always be in this together. It took him a few minutes, but his hand eventually came to rest over Gregory’s where it rested on his cheek. “I love you.”

Tears were welling in Gregory’s eyes as well, thumb gently wiping some of the tears from Mycroft’s face. “I love you so much Mycroft. It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through it.”

There was a chaste kiss, quick as his co-workers signalled that it was time to depart. He sighed, stepping out from under the umbrella with a squeeze to the hand one last time. He took a shuddering breathe as the rain splattered against his shoulder blades. “Farewell, my love. To see you again soon is my deepest desire.”

He was walking towards the jet when he remembered his promise – wave. He turned around a subtly waved towards Gregory with a small smile, eyes still sad. He’d get through these two weeks of torture. The faster he embarked, the sooner he would return to the warm arms he was already missing.

“I love you,” Gregory yelled in reply with a large, enthusiastic wave. He fiddled with the jumper to hide the large grin from his professional colleagues.

Time changes people for the better, Mycroft decided.


	5. Fear (September, Year 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> \- Mentions of depression  
> \- Self-blame and subconscious self-harm  
> \- Massive injury  
> \- PAIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty dark whoops. This is a little later than I wanted it to be, but this weekend gave us the glory that is Infinity War and in combination with the newest Hamildrop and lots of coursework I haven't had the time to edit my writing (I added about 1000 words to this chapter). I'm gonna give myself until Friday 11th May (SHERLOCK GNOMES IS SOMETHING I NEED TO SEE) but due to a bank-holiday I might have it up before that.
> 
> Just so you are aware, the final chapter will probably be a bit late too because Deadpool 2 comes out and that's going to occupy my mind for a while.  
> Thanks,  
> D

After the Sweden, there was Belgium, France and now Spain.

Mycroft had never sat through a duller evening.

The talk had been boring, tedious, mind-numbing with too many references to current political conflicts and far too little about what to do to prevent an all-out war. This was potentially the worst night Mycroft had ever sat through, and he’d been in countless PPE lectures where his professors had taken every minuscule opportunity to inject their unjust and illogical opinions. After the dragging four hours on plastic, squeaking chairs that made his lower spine burn, he was made to stand and talk to allies who had daft views on a topic they didn’t understand.

Suffering through pleasantries with only a finger of whiskey to keep him company was akin to mental torture.

At one point he’d actually been lucky; he’d had a delightful discussion about anti-war policy with a particularly witty politician from Germany, his stomach aching slightly from the laughter. That didn’t last. Soon, Mycroft had been ushered by his assistant A – she’d gone by a different name every month but they all began with an A so he assumed there was a correlation –to a dull proceeding with a Greek who was far too keen on slapping his shoulders.

That’s when he received the first vibration to his thigh.

Waving off the sensation and assuming it was Gregory, he resolved that he’d leave for “fresh air” at some point and forced himself into another conversation. It was like forcing words out from behind a gag.

The second vibration caught him more off guard than the first; his boyfriend usually avoided texting twice in a row. Still, he brushed it off and went about answering questions and enduring the endless comments about how he was surely too young for the role. He’d laughed them off and pretended they were a compliment on his looks rather than a sly comment on the state of Britain’s current political affairs.

They’d see in a few years when Mycroft had completely reformed the government and bent it to his will – it was just bad luck that he’d joined the line-up as Britain was leaving the EU and presenting themselves as a prejudiced country.

A third vibration caused a tension to spread out through his shoulders, but he forced himself to loosen them and continue on. If anything extremely bad had happened, surely they would be continuously calling Mycroft until he found a way to free himself to answer rather than texting sporadically.

He’d just started the second glass of whiskey (upped to two fingers in the hope it would help him endure all the snide mutterings and idiotic declarations) when a fourth text came. Mycroft just cracked his knuckles and ploughed on.

He’d confirmed with A that he’d be allowed to take a break within the next hour when the fifth text came, and he hoped to high hell that this wasn’t something terrible and that it was just him being paranoid.

With the six text came with the approach of one of the security guards, and a seventh as he stopped in front of Mycroft. The eighth as he opened his mouth, the ninth following directly. Mycroft could barely concentrate on the man’s words as the phone jumped and danced in his pocket. Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen.

“Would you please follow me, sir?” the security guard repeated as the fifteenth and sixteenth caused his phone to leap. Following the security guard, the texts reached twenty and the colour drained from his face.

They’d stopped in front of Mycroft’s boss, and from the way, the man held himself it was bad news.

“Yes, sir?” Mycroft forced out, voice cracking as his body accepted that now was the time to panic. His hands were gnarled tightly into fists, nails digging into the palm of his hand so hard that he’d have been unsurprised if they drew blood.

“We have been contacted by the Winston Churchill Hospital in Oxford. They contacted you as next of kin,” his boss explained, and Mycroft froze immediately. His brain was sluggish in putting together the details; he wasn’t Gregory’s next of kin, so it had to be his brother. Brother. Sherlock was in danger.

His eyes clenched shut and he bit down on his lip hard to prevent himself from appearing too weak. “What is wrong with Master Holmes, sir?” Mycroft somehow managed to push out of the cage of his throat, it sounded surprisingly steady compared to how unstable he felt.

“Master Holmes was brought into the Winston Churchill Hospital, Oxford, at 18:00, Greenwich Mean Time. He was admitted to the accident and emergency department and is currently unstable. All we were told was that they were unsure if he’d survive, so we do not have any further details.”

“Thank you, sir. May I have permission to check my phone, sir? I believe my partner may have texted me about the incident.”

“Permission granted.”

With shaking hands, he fumbled with his phone. He nearly dropped it, and then mistyped his password twice – he almost did it a third time and locked himself out. Swiping down on the screen, he pulled up his notifications and dug his teeth into the soft flesh of his lower lip.

_15:39 – ICE Gregory Lestrade – Hello love, text me when you’re free? I have some great news! x_

_16:35 –  ICE Gregory Lestrade – It’s lonely here without you. I miss you a lot, love. I hope it’s not too boring or lonely on your side. Message when you can. x_

_17:45 – John Watson – Mycroft, this is urgent. I just called an ambulance. Reply ASAP._

_18:00 – John Watson – Just reached the hospital, they won’t let me see him. Please reply._

_18:05 – John Watson – They haven’t even told me if he’ll survive. Please reply._

_18:10 – John Watson – Please reply, Mycroft._

_18:15 – John Watson – Texted Greg, he’s on his way._

_18:20 – John Watson – I’m so scared Mycroft._

_18:25 – John Watson – I don’t know what to do._

_18:30 – John Watson – They said that me and Greg have no right to information. Nearly punched the receptionist._

_18:34 – John Watson – Greg demanded information, got nothing._

_18:38 – John Watson – Greg thinks they’ve taken him into surgery._

_18:42 – John Watson – Greg asked if you knew what was happening. I realised probably not._

_18:44 – John Watson – Me and Sherlock were doing some of his extra-curricular work. He’s dead keen on getting his A-level’s over with ASAP so that he can come to University and room with me._

_18:46 – John Watson – Dead was not a good word to use, now crying quite hard, texts might have typos._

_18:48 – John Watson – Sherlock said that he had to collect something for his experiment, said I’d come with. He needed to climb a tree._

_18:50 – John Watson – I told him not to go too high, but he never listens. God, why didn’t he listen, Mycroft?_

_18:51 – John Watson – He slipped, and fell from about 10ft up. Usually wouldn’t be so bad, but he fell bckwards and away from the tree and impaled himself on a spike of metal left over from a fence._

_18:52 – John Watson – I wouldn’t have worried too much normally because they tend to be superficial wounds, but he couldn’t really breathe when I reached him, and I think it went through his lung._

_18:53 – John Watson – Called Ambulance and here we are. He was bleeding so much. I’m so scared._

_18:54 – John Watson – Why won’t you reply?_

_18:55 – John Watson – Sometimes I wonder if you care about him at all._

_18:56 – John Watson – Sorry, just remembered that you’re on a work trip._

_18:57 – John Watson – I must look like such a dick._

_18:58 – John Watson – Greg just got confirmation that you’re being told by your boss._

Mycroft let out a few shuddering breaths, terrified that his brother could die any moment and he wouldn’t know until he got back to the UK. He stabbed at the screen, managing somehow to produce legible sentences.

_18:58 – Mycroft Holmes – Was just told, thank you for the messages._

_18:59 – Mycroft Holmes – I’m sorry for not looking at my phone sooner, I wanted to but it’s considered rude to take out your phone during a conversation at these things._

_19:00 – Mycroft Holmes – If you ever need me, please call. I can disrupt a conversation for a call._

_19:01 – Mycroft Holmes – I’ll somehow get home, I promise._

Shoving his phone into his pocket, Mycroft used the back of his hand to wipe away some of the moisture from his cheeks that he wouldn’t have considered tears until just over a year ago. Usually, he’d never have considered crying in front of his boss, but he loved his brother so much.

“I need to return home,” Mycroft told his boss firmly, pulling his suit jacket tighter around his shoulders.

“Of course, Mr Holmes. We, however, are unsure how to return you to your family.”

“Via helicopter,” Mycroft blurted, not really thinking. In afterthought, he added, “Please.”

“That would be a lot of paperwork, sir.”

“I’ll fill it out myself once I am sure my brother is safe,” Mycroft told them, eyes steeled. He’d hijack and fly the helicopter himself if he had to; he would stop at nothing to see his brother. His boss seemed to pause in thought for a few moments – Mycroft wanted to shake him and yell that his brother could have mere minutes – before giving a slight nod. Mycroft almost broke into sobs of relief.

He was quietly lead to a nondescript black ford, slipping in and slowly drinking the black coffee that A had placed in his hands. At least he had her.

Speeding towards the helicopter terminal, Mycroft screwed his eyes tightly shut, avoiding to even think about the more negative outcomes from this: not only would his brother be dead, but he’d have a mourning John to look after. They were loaded efficiently into the helicopter and this was the time when Mycroft went through every bad scenario and tried to come up with an action plan that would make the situations more bearable. With a tight fist, he ignored that Sherlock might even already be dead and that he _wasn’t_ there like he’d always promised to be.

When he opened his eyes, the plane descending far too slowly, he noticed that his fingers were gripping tightly at the fabric of his suit trousers, tight enough to fray some of the fabric that he didn’t really care about. There was also surface level scratches on the back of his hand, the skin red and angry; he’d inflicted them sub-consciously in panic, or perhaps self-punishment.

He was pushed into another black car that sped towards his brother’s hospital without giving him time to put on his seatbelt. Even if his presence meant that John would receive some news that it would be worth it; even if he only got to see his brother’s dying moments that would be infinitely better than knowing he was just too late.

Everything was a blur as he practically ran through the entrance of the hospital, past the information desk, past the endless lines of wheelchairs, past the café, past the small gift shop, past multiple wards and into the reception for the accident and emergency. Most of the faces blurred into one mass through the tears that had welled, but he managed to distinguish the weeping mound that was John Watson and the comforting presence that was a panicked Gregory Lestrade. His body was moving too fast for him, and he found that his thighs were hitting against the receptionist’s desk, spewing a jumble of words that correlated just enough to give him the information on his brother’s condition.

“Mycroft Holmes, I’m here for Sherlock Holmes?” Mycroft slurred and tried to focus himself by using the clicking of the receptionist’s mechanical keyboard. She confirmed the name before her face morphed into confusion. He spat out the words when he realised his error, “Sorry, Sherlock uses his middle name in conversation; his legal name is William Holmes?”

The clicking of the keyboard returned as a reprise before the nurse shared the details on Sherlock’s file. “William has been taken into surgery so that they can deal with his punctured lung. His survival rate is currently at fifty percent.”

Mycroft swallowed heavily, trying to push back the tears that were threatening to spill. Only fifty percent?

“Thank you,” Mycroft intoned, pretending that the information wasn’t almost entirely useless – Gregory had realised that Sherlock had likely been taken into surgery and the first few months of John’s medical degree was enough for him to know that it was likely to be a punctured lung. “Would you be able to add a note to the file? It would be preferable if both Gregory Lestrade and John Watson were able to receive information about William’s condition, as I won’t be available all of the time,” after a brief pause, “Gregory may give his forename as Greg.”

“Of course, sir,” she said, and the clacking of the keyboard began the horrible thumping of a stress-induced headache. It ached behind his eyes, with it somewhat feeling like there were two metal poles being slowly pushed to either side of his skull. “Can I have their relations with the patient and why they are allowed access?”

“Gregory, Greg, Lestrade is my ICE and so looks after William whenever work takes me out of the country. John Watson is William’s long-term significant other who spends most of his time with William, so the information is vital. That’s him over there,” Mycroft told the woman, pointing towards John, who had only succeeded in curling himself into more of a ball shape, and Gregory. “In addition to that, I believe William would prefer to be called by his chosen name Sherlock wherever possible, and will likely be referred to as Sherlock in conversations with the staff.”

“Thank you, sir. Feel free to take a seat in the waiting room.”

Mycroft was numb as he moved from the desk, walking towards his family and worrying his lip at the thought of them perhaps going from a family of four to a family of three. He didn’t know whether he was shocked that he accepted John’s broken form into his arms, but smoothed his hair gently regardless.

“Did they tell you anything?” Gregory asked, quietly enough that no one outside of the three would be able to overhear. Mycroft noticed the redness of Gregory’s bottom lip from where he’d likely tugged and bit it repeatedly in distress. His hand slipped down onto Mycroft’s thigh in a small attempt at support when he was really just as fragile and broken.

“They said fifty percent,” Mycroft admitted, holding John tighter as the boy’s chest began to heave and body began to rock. Teeth chattering from the shock of the reality of death, John let out an ugly sob into Mycroft’s neck. “It’s the chance of a coin flip, Gregory, and I’m terrified.”

 

Four cold hours passed slowly, dragging painfully against the three’s skin and pulling at their hair with vengeance. Cold teeth were burrowing into their arms when they were asked to leave the frigid reception, dark from the lack of natural light and yet bright and yellow from the fluorescent bulbs. Mycroft’s eyes burned and watered. Knowing that they were not going to sleep in a long while, just from the pained worry lines etched across John’s face, he asked for the location of local twenty-four-hour cafés; John was still weeping and hadn’t stopped shaking despite being slowly layered in blankets.

From the arch of the receptionist’s eyebrow, he knew she was questioning their life-stories and was one word from recommending them sleep until Gregory’s glare caused her to stutter the location of one that was only a short walk from the hospital wards. While receiving some final information on Sherlock – chances had improved to fifty-five percent – Gregory led John outside for some fresh air. A few brief texts were sent to his superiors to apologise for the lack of notification on his current absent as he followed a little behind.

He caught up a few minutes later and laid his larger jacket over John’s shoulder in a form of physical comfort. They walked mostly in silence, and when they arrived Mycroft took it upon himself to order the drinks.

Once ensuring the other two were seated comfortably at a small wooden table, Mycroft went up to the university student that was their barista and quietly ordered three drinks: a latte with two sugar packets; an Americano with just one; and a caramel latte with three and an extra milk shot. Silent in both paying and collecting the drinks from the pick-up, he sat with a sigh and rubbed at his eyes.

Despite being incredibly tired, Mycroft couldn’t imagine going to sleep; the idea of a nap was foreign to him and he instinctively knew that the bags under his eyes were going to become dark and swollen for the next few weeks until Sherlock was out of intensive care. He refused to think about Sherlock’s potential death.

John was the first to finish with his mug (Mycroft held a sinking feeling that John had rushed the burning liquid so that he would feel something other than numbness and fear) and proceeded to play with the empty sugar packets. He’d curl them into double helixes, to begin with, before tearing them into confetti. The barista brought over a sheet of paper and a pen at one point, and Mycroft wondered whether it was her crush on John or the want to avoid a larger mess that spurred the kindness.

The paper was soon covered in dark biro: looping circles, the name Sherlock written over and over again, a harsh scribble of the words ‘you can’t be dead’, and an artistic yet scientifically accurate drawing of a heart covered in lacerations.

Mycroft winced when John turned the sheet over and there, in the same ink, stood a confident phone number. Crush, then. John dropped the pen like it burned his fingers before his face went dark in anger. Mycroft couldn’t even spit out a word as John pulled and tore at the sheet until it joined the confetti of sugar packets.

Grouping them into an over-flowing handful, John stalked to the counter and ignored Gregory’s gentle warning. With a heavy flick of the wrist, the paper was flung into the barista’s face and John’s teeth were bared in animalistic instinct. “John,” Mycroft warned.

“You think now is the time to attempt to flirt with me?” John growled before his hand went up and waved at his face. “This is the face of a man who’s been crying non-stop for _hours_. You think, _now_ , is the time to flirt with me?”

“John- “

“My boyfriend – yes that’s right _boy_ friend – is currently in hospital and I don’t know if he’s going to be dead when we return at the start of visiting hours.”

“I didn’t know,” the girl whispered quietly, wincing as John just growled in response. Mycroft slowly pulled himself to his feet. “I’m so sorry- I didn’t know at all. I just thought it might cheer you up.”

“I DO NOT care if you didn’t know,” John yelled, Mycroft’s hand clamping on his right shoulder. “I don’t care because these hickeys are indicative of a relationship, and the different shades indicate that it wasn’t a one-night stand and- and I only knew that because- Sherlock.”

With a shuddering breath, John curled into Mycroft’s embrace and sobbed into his neck. The shaking that had slowly calmed increased into over-drive and his teeth chattered. Mycroft gave a pitying glance towards the barista, a mouthed apology, as he led the sobbing boy to a bench further into the café.

“If he dies, Mycroft, it’s all my fault.”

 

It took thirty-four hours for Sherlock to be moved from Accident and Emergency, from _three separate operations_ , into an intensive care unit where he looked more robot than human. He was laced into many different monitors: a tube down his nose for food; an oxygen machine; an ECG machine; and two intravenous drips just to name a few. There was residue from the tape they’d placed over his eyes that were still heavily closed; they’d yet to open and he’d had to reassure John multiple times that this was completely normal, despite him being a medical student.

Mycroft had returned to work after the first three days, and Gregory had to return to his third-final-year lectures so that he wouldn’t fall behind. John, however, had forgone lectures and seminars to stay at Sherlock’s bedside during visiting hours. One hand was always holding Sherlock’s scraped one, while the other one held either a novel (which he read out to Sherlock) or his phone.

They’d all tried to convince John to return to his classes and try to act as normal as possible because _routines helped_. Even the doctors urged him to go to classes as there was a long road to recovery. John had sarcastically asked how anything would be normal without Sherlock by his side before falling silent for most of the day, and he’d remained.

One afternoon he’d been called into a meeting at the university and John had quietly asked if Mycroft would be able to sit at Sherlock’s side while he couldn’t. Mycroft, despite knowing work would be irritated, agreed. His theory was that John was going to be asked to leave the university and have his bursary removed unless he returned to lectures and lab periods. It was a pleasant surprise when he discovered that John had called the university to hold the meeting with the plan to defer, but had been offered special circumstances.

“They said I can have a few weeks to get back on my feet, and then I’d only need to return to labs for another few weeks. They said something about me being an ideal student and so they trusted me to be using my time wisely. Namely, they’ll hope I’ll keep up with my studies while I’m at Sherlock’s bedside,” John explained. “If I find myself unable to catch up, I can re-submit my application for deferral and they’re likely to accept.”

Mycroft knew that John considered Sherlock far more important than his education, but asked John whether he was sure of that decision none-the-less.

John shrugged. “Sherlock saved my life. I was pretty down when you guys met me and despite seeming alright I was heavily considering some of the worse options for my future. I’m only doing what you did for Greg – it’s what you do to ensure their safety, isn’t it?”

Mycroft found no fault in his argument and quietly smiled towards the younger man. It was incredible how much the pair had grown together, and frankly impressive how loyal they were to each other; he’d never been gladder that he’d introduced the pair.

“You do plan on returning to your studies once Sherlock is confirmed to be stable and moved out of intensive care, yes? The doctors predict that Sherlock’s full recovery is likely to take closer to a year than a month – the estimate was between five and seven.”

“Yeah, I plan on returning when he’s confirmed stable. At least labs, because they’re interesting and might be able to provide a brief respite from the gloom of a hospital,” John said with a sad smile, fingers giving Sherlock’s palm a brief squeeze. “Sherlock will hate this place.”

“I have no doubt,” Mycroft gave a small smile and a light nod in agreement. “He wouldn’t want you to defer for him.”

“No I didn’t think he would either, which is why I’m going to try my best, but it’s too difficult to put on a fake smile and resist breaking down when someone says ‘how are you?’ because ‘yeah, good thanks’ is far too far from the reality. I’m a mess; I haven’t showered in two days and I only did then because I didn’t want to stink out the ward too much. My hair feels disgusting, my face and hands are grotty, it’s just not something I can do right now.”

“Of course. I’ve freed up my midweek early evenings as much as possible so I can accompany you at his side and put business trips on a hiatus. I’d hate to be halfway across the world when Sherlock could deteriorate quickly.”

There was a heavy, awkward pause – mentioning deterioration was clearly unwelcome. “Greg plans on coming down as regularly as he can,” John murmured at last. Mycroft let go of the breath he’d been quietly holding. “He’s been picking up a few of my shifts at the café so he won’t be able to come as much as he’d like.”

Silence filled the next hour, only broken by the rhythmic tapping of fingers on smartphone screens and John occasionally announcing another get-well-soon message. The displeasure in needing to receive such messages was clear in his tone. A nurse appeared randomly to check vitals or change an IV bag, but they were left mostly to their own devices.

A sharp vibration (and a hissed expletive that Mycroft would never admit to) broke the quiet, almost-mournful atmosphere. He stood, and said his farewells to John before adding, “John, you care for my brother more than I could ever afford to, and I know you’re short of money due to lack of shifts. Please allow me to provide you with some financial aid while you’re looking after my brother.”

John looked ready to protest, but quickly paused and a heavy blush settled on his cheeks (so he had run out of money!) before he muttered about how that would be appreciated and an even quieter thank you. Mycroft didn’t hesitate in transferring one hundred pounds into John’s bank account, and spent just a few seconds setting up an automatic bank-transfer of fifty pounds per week.

It was only later, as the visiting hours ended and John hooked his bag over his shoulder and began his walk home, that he received a text message.

_20:12 – Mycroft Holmes – Consider it a small thank you for loving and caring for my brother more than any other human being has every tried to, and a large thank you for being one of few that treat my beloved brother as human. He needed you._


	6. Recovery (October, Year 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is on a slow road to recovery and Mycroft learns some more about his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is full of hope, to contrast the absolute angst that was the last chapter! I'm sorry I'm slightly late (again), but I finished this when I should've been writing coursework so :D I hope you enjoy the chapter and please make sure to leave some feedback if you've enjoyed it (Kudos, Comments or both!!)  
> The next (last) chapter, I hope, is going to be up on the 25th of May!  
> Thanks,  
> D :)

Two and a half weeks after he was admitted to the Accident and Emergency ward, Sherlock was moved from his bed in intensive care to a small private room in the Welkin’s ward. Some of the wires that had been securely taped to him had been removed, and he was recovering steadily, even if it was slower than they would all like.

The Welkin’s ward was one of few in the country; it was a specially designed high-care unit which catered to people between the age of sixteen and twenty-four. Holding more stimulation than the drab adult wards in the hope to help the youth to recover, the corridors were less childish and the selection of books was much more suited to the occupants. They’d even gone out of their way to add text-books for a variety of subjects due to most of the inhabitants being of testing age. Mycroft occasionally picked up a book on chemistry to read to Sherlock while he was there (mostly because he found wards boring and depressing, but also in the hope of encouraging his brother to wake).

Sherlock’s private room was only just big enough to hold his hospital bed, bedside table and equipment, yet had been covered in splashes of bright colour: a blanket here, a jacket there. There was an ugly fabric chair in a garish red that sat to one side of the bed – opposite the equipment – along with an uncomfortable plastic seat at the end by the doctor’s files, a small kettle, sugar pot and a selection of tea bags were set on the bedside table so that John could make a drink once he arrived after university each day.

John, a saint in Mycroft’s eyes, had taken to spending the hours from five until eight in the hospital by Sherlock’s bedside each night, brushing fingers through his hair. Despite the countless hours spent at Sherlock’s side, he’d yet to grow bored of caring for his boyfriend and that was something that Mycroft admired.

Sherlock was still mostly unconscious.

There were small periods each day where he would wake up in a disorientated manner and make a groan of pain, look around the room and perhaps say a few words before sliding back into unconsciousness like he’d hardly even been there. Once, John liked to recount, Sherlock had barely even opened his eyes as he muttered, “This feeding tube is a pain in the ass,” and promptly closed them again with a grunt. John had laughed far more than he should have, but he’d taken it as a sign that Sherlock was on the road to recovery and that was worth the hours of slightly insane giggles.

Mycroft had managed to reduce his duties, freeing up two early evenings a week to accompany John on his habitual visit. He missed his work – purely because it kept his mind from worrying constantly about the worst case scenarios – yet never complained once while sitting at his brother’s bedside, even when he’d tried some of the tar-water they tried to call coffee.

That particular evening, Mycroft pulled on the thin plastic apron and a pair of standard blue gloves before walking into his brother’s room. It wasn’t necessary _really_ but it had been recommended by most doctors as a simple infection could have a disastrous effect on Sherlock’s recovery.

He ignored the possibility that MSRA could creep down the corridor and sneak into Sherlock’s room on the unsuspecting soles of the doctors and nurses’ shoes.

John, Gregory and Mycroft had agreed to always wear the precautionary apron and gloves, although John often forewent them and scrubbed his hands up to his elbows in the skin with the harsh hospital soap instead; he preferred the skin to skin contact and the feeling of the warm,  _alive,_ skin of his boyfriend.

Mycroft took a seat on the uncomfortable plastic chair at the end of the bed, taking the doctors notes and reading through them, as the more comfortable visitor chair – Gregory and Mycroft agreed – was for John’s use only and was usually covered in something that John had left behind the previous day (currently a grey cardigan that Gregory had teased him about countless times). The doctor’s note read that little had changed except the slow, steady improvement that they’d been watching over the past four days. With a small nod at the survival percentage, up to a confident ninety percent, he replaced the clipboard.

Needing to do something with his hands, Mycroft began to shuffle the small pile of stimulation – Sudoku, crosswords, a small book of puzzles purchased from the newsagent stationed in the hospital, and a few pieces of the easier a-level work he’d been assigned. He started by separating all the individual pieces of paper into piles, before latticing them (landscape, portrait, landscape, portrait) so that they could easily be re-separated. They’d likely be a mess again within a few hours as the nurses often moved the table for easier access to the fluid IV bags, tubes and machines to ensure they were full and working correctly.

Enjoying the small levels of control that organisation brought, Mycroft usually would’ve brought a small plastic paper-binder to hold them all in place. This time, however, Mycroft felt calmed by the constant need to re-organise the papers.

Sherlock had yet to wake up – Mycroft thought that he subconsciously waited for John each day – so Mycroft’s allowed his glaze to wonder the room with an absent mind. They catalogued the stark contrast between the machines and the splashes of colour, the sounds of the beeping and far away steps, the –

What was that?

Tucked under the blanket and Sherlock’s left arm, was a small lump of plush fabric. From the way that it had been arranged, it was evident that the nurses had replaced it when they’d jostled it checking Sherlock’s tubes; it was far too secure to have been placed by anyone else.

Face tilting into a smile, he looked at the small brown plush teddy bear that was clothed in a felt bee costume and the small gift-tag that was hanging from the ear.

_To my dearest Sherlock,_

_I know you always loved bees and their social construct, but there were no plush bees in the soft-toy shop. Perhaps this bear is an SIS agent infiltrating the grand bee-hive because Queen Bee (Queenie) has been over-charging for her honey?_

_The original tag named him Bearemy but that was disgustingly cheesy, so I name him James Bearvilton III._

_Love, your John. x_

As well as the plush addition, there was a small vase of flowers that sat on Sherlock’s bedside table; considering their meanings, it seemed likely they were from John. In the small bouquet, there were three pink peonies to symbolise good health, a white calla lily for love, a singular purple hyacinth to ask forgiveness for not catching him at the bottom of his fall, and a small sea of white heather to indicate his plan to protect Sherlock.

When visiting a few days earlier, Mycroft had noticed a small pile of ‘get well soon’ cards piled on the bedside table where the vase now stood. They’d been transferred onto a piece of string which hung from one crease in the wall to another.

Before he’d even realised he was on his feet, he’d approached the string and began to quietly read through each card. One of the cards, the largest, was from his A-level class. Sherlock would likely hate it; he disliked many of the people in his classes, and there was a distinct lack of empathy in the responses which was often just a name and the occasional impersonal phrase. Following this card was a trail of cards that had all come from the same envelope due to the identical fold they all had on their bottom right corner. They’d all come from the crime society, and clearly held some inside jokes as they contained substantial paragraphs of text rather than lacklustre niceties. One, from Sally Donovan whom Sherlock complained about constantly, contained a heartfelt paragraph about how his contributions made the society far more interesting – even if he could be an utter dick.

Filling the rest of the string was a collection of cards from a group he didn’t expect. Rainbows danced on the front of the card, and one even had the phrase ‘don’t die, it’d be very inconvenient’ which made him snicker. The cards were clearly from the LGBT society that John had enthusiastically joined when he’d officially started University. Mycroft, however, hadn’t realised that Sherlock had accompanied John to the meetings.

Mycroft recalled John’s discussion of the club when they’d fall into not-exactly-comfortable silence at Sherlock’s bedside; John had originally joined it due to curiosity and had stayed due to the amazing support he’d received as a result. “They’re one of the only reasons I agreed to pause my deferral,” John had explained one evening.

One of the cards wasn’t really a card, catching Mycroft’s attention. The piece of cardstock was unevenly folded in half with a drawing of a patched teddy on the front, a cursive reading ‘a scar is just a patch on the skin’.

Upon opening the card, Mycroft was pleasantly surprised by the lengthy paragraphs inside as Sherlock had few friends:

_Sherlock,_

_Sherls, Sherly, Sher, S, SH, that gay little boyfriend of Johns, my closest friend,_

_Do you remember when I first saw you? Well, probably not right now since you’re barely conscious according to John – be quite hard to remember when you can barely stay away. Anyways, it was a normal Thursday afternoon by my standard, the third week back at the society since the new semester, and John had promised to bring along his significant other._

_He’d only referred to you as that so we had no clue what to expect, to be honest, but it wasn’t you. I still don’t know if we can consider ourselves ‘pleasantly surprised’ but you definitely were a surprise._

_We thought maybe a non-binary person, or a girl, or a boy our age, but NOPE, we got you, a human stick with crazy black hair and the ability to tell everyone their life secrets within the first glance. K is still incredibly thankful for you convincing them to leave that shit of a relationship, by the way._

_Although, you had a hard time accepting that I was a lesbian and that I didn’t want to steal you from John like some kind of sexual deviant. You’re interesting, but I prefer the female sex, thank you._

_My favourite memory was when I was first shirtless around you. We’d had a water fight so I went down to just my sports bra and you spluttered for ten minutes because you were so gay that you didn’t know where to look. Imagine if I’d been wearing just nipple plasters like I plan to do so at pride!_

_It was horrible when we found out you were in the hospital. John didn’t come to club for two weeks in a row but we assumed you were just busy because you two always seemed up to some wild and random adventure, but he started crying when we asked if you were revising (since he came alone), and we had this big group hug-and-cry for most of the session._

_I really hope you heal ASAP now that you’ve been moved to a different ward, Sherlock. It’s not the same without you here and John tries to act like he’s fine but we all know that he’s not._

_We want you back, Sherlock, so you’re not allowed to give up, okay?_

_Lots of Love,_

_From someone who desperately wants to see you happy, healthy and in love,_

_Irene Adler_

Mycroft tasted salty tears on his top lip but made no effort to wipe them away. Despite Sherlock never having mentioned this Irene, Mycroft felt no contempt at being withheld from his brother’s social life; his brother had found his people, his friends, and he was happy.

Leafing through a few other notes, chuckling at a pun within one of the cards, Mycroft only slightly acknowledged the click of the door as John pushed it open, dressed in his own thin apron and slightly dishevelled. His sleeves were rolled up in preparation for his near habitual hand washing, rucksack being dumped on the more-comfortable chair.

“Hey Sherlock,” John said to the room as he began to scrub his skin at the nurses’ station (Mycroft pretended that the red-raw knuckles and dried skin went unnoticed). “Have you seen your bear yet? If you haven’t, it’s a bear in a bee costume since I couldn’t find a bee plush. I got it yesterday with K before coming to visit you because they said something about coping and needing to go out more and they near on abducted me. Despite trying to distract me, they didn’t stop me buying the plush when I entered this adorable plush store on a mission.

“Today was okay, I suppose. A pathologist brought it a few cadavers and we were observing them dissecting a liver. It had cirrhosis – the pathologist didn’t mention it but I remember what a diseased liver looked like from that cold-case you had us read about at the crime society.

“It was weird, not receiving any text messages from you though. Usually, I’ll get the comment ‘is that a vibrator?’ at least once every day but I haven’t for weeks. I miss you, a lot, Sherlock.

“Crime and LGBT gave me cards to give you, and I strung them up. Irene made this beautiful one with a patched teddy bear and I’m pretty sure Mycroft has read through them since he’s been doing some snooping in the corner.”

“Nosey Mycroft,” Sherlock said in a harsh, un-watered voice. Both John and Mycroft’s head turned towards Sherlock as he blinked a few times; his eyes were slightly wider than they had been previously which Mycroft took as a good sign. Sherlock winced in pain before continuing, “I miss you too.”

“I’m always here,” John murmured, having moved from the nurses’ station to beside Sherlock’s bed. He laid a gentle hand on Sherlock’s heart, and Mycroft was certain that Sherlock would’ve scowled fondly at the sentiment had he been able to move without pain. “And I make sure I’m here for at least three hours every night. Did you see the bear?”

Sherlock’s words were slightly slurred as he repeated, “Bear?” Mycroft had the urge to get Sherlock a glass of water, but Sherlock was still not allowed to orally ingest food. John picked up the bear from under Sherlock’s arm, showed him and then replaced it neatly under his chin. Sherlock minutely snuggled into the soft fur and muttered, “Sorry for being an idiot and not listening to your warnings.”

“No need to apologise,” John said gently. “I’m so thankful you’re not dead, really.”

“I’m still sorry, you worried a lot.”

“I worry about everything,” John reassured lightly. “I worry about whether we have tea bags and milk, whether I have enough pens to make it through the week of lectures and whether it makes me crazy to sleep with a bunch of experiments.”

Mycroft had slowly moved into view and taken a quiet seat on the uncomfortable plastic (as quiet as he could when the legs squeaked against the lino). Sherlock twisted his head slightly and smiled weakly before wincing. The sides of his mouth fell back into line as Mycroft took his hand in support. “I’m glad you’re getting better.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed minutely, “I’m tired.” John tried to explain to him that he was healing and so sleeping regularly was normal and that he should sleep if he felt the need to.

Sherlock was still conflicted, fighting his tiredness and trying to keep his eyes open. “You have no need to stay awake for us, Sherlock. This small conversation has no doubt made John’s day, and we’d much prefer you have shorter conversations and get better than shocking your body by trying to throw it into action,” Mycroft reassured his brother.

Already drifting into sleep, Sherlock eyes closed as soon as Mycroft’s sentence ended and it was barely two minutes before he started to make weird sleeping sounds around his feeding tube.

After perhaps thirty minutes of silence, Mycroft looking absently around the room while John read through a few pages of his medical textbook, Mycroft stood and asked John to accompany him to the hospital’s small, mostly mediocre café. Somewhat reluctant to leave, John closed his textbook and quietly explained to Sherlock where they were going – even if Sherlock was incredibly unlike to wake up again that evening, let alone within the next hour. The walk was silent and somewhat awkward.

Once Mycroft had ordered their drinks, they sat at one of the small tables by the entrance. Mycroft took his time adding two shots of milk and two sugars to the black coffee he’d ordered, before looking up. “Thank you, for it all.”

“You’ve already said that,” John commented. “Less than two weeks ago, in fact. And again, you don’t need to thank me.”

“Still,” Mycroft insisted, watching John take a sip of his drink and groan in disapproval; the coffee was definitely not up to the standard of The Daily Grind. “My brother’s deductions have always been the thing which ostracised him from his peers due to their blunt nature, and sometimes I have regretted teaching Sherlock the skill. However, you have called his skill amazing, and shown him ways to use his deductions for good, and have shown him the kindest hand of love and friendship. Thank you for that.”

“I feel blessed around him,” John admitted, blushing slightly into his disposable cup. “I’ve always had friends, people I care about, and even a few previous relationships where I thought I might love my boyfriend or girlfriend, but Sherlock blew me away. I worried far too much about his age at the beginning but I doubt I’d change anything if I were to go back. Maybe I'd yell at myself to be less oblivious.”

Mycroft smiled into his cup, taking a few sips as he thought about how to continue this conversation. The proposition would probably be considered small by most, but he considered it larger when he thought about John’s age.

“As you know, the Holmes take celebrating Christmas very seriously. It is usually just our family, but a lot has changed these past few years, and after the incident, I want to bring us all together – a protective instinct no doubt – so I was wondering if you’d like to stay at ours over the Christmas break. Of course, you could still spend Christmas day with your family, if you’d like to, but we’d be delighted to have you on Christmas Eve and over new year’s.

“I thought it would be a nice surprise for Sherlock, so I hadn’t planned on telling him – I’d have you escorted from your dorm to our home after Sherlock has returned.

“Gregory is planning on coming, I believe, as he seemed interested when we discussed it a few weeks ago.”

“It’s only October!” John said with a slight laugh. It sobered quickly when he asked, “What if Sherlock is still in hospital at Christmas?”

“It’s good to plan ahead” Mycroft explained. “And I’m hopeful that Sherlock will be out of the hospital by then. Looking at his predicted recovery, he should be out about two weeks beforehand, and I’m hopeful that we can get an overnight stay at home even if he has to come back afterwards.”

“I definitely hope so,” John murmured in agreement, sipping his coffee and shaking the cup to ensure that it was really empty. John excused himself to go back and spend some time with Sherlock while Mycroft threw away his rubbish. John requested to have about ten minutes alone with Sherlock, which was likely where he told Sherlock things that weren’t necessarily for anyone else’s ears. He’d once ushered Mycroft, Gregory and an unsuspected nurse out of Sherlock’s room to spend twenty minutes murmuring in his boyfriend’s ears.

.


	7. Finale (Christmas, Year 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm admittedly not completely happy with this chapter, but I couldn't find a way to end it properly and it's stressing me out, so I'm going to post what I have.  
> It's shorter compared to the other six chapters and split into two points of view.  
> I might come back and re-edit this chapter (again) in a few weeks time when I've let this AU sit for a while and I'm bored.

Huddled tightly in a small grey blanket and trying to avoid a mouthful of snow with lethargic limbs, Sherlock found himself herded like a sheep into his family living room, John Watson assisting on one side and his over-bearing brother on the other. He was mostly healed, but his muscles were weak due to long periods of being still and there were still some spikes of pain if he breathed in too hard.

It was December 24th, Christmas Eve, and Sherlock was lucky to have escaped the horribly boring walls of the hospital; frankly, he couldn’t wait to wash the smell of ever-present disinfectant from his skin.

He barely registered as Mycroft and Gregory left the room, going on their date or something, but grinned as his boyfriend settled next to him and pressed a soft kiss to the side of his neck.

“Hey love,” John whispered into Sherlock’s neck, savouring the opportunity to breathe in his boyfriend for the first time in months. It’d been far too uncomfortable to snuggle at the hospital, even in the later weeks when Sherlock had regained his mobility and was mostly free of tubes. “I need you to take some painkillers for me now, okay?”

“Hey,” was the replied murmur, soft against John’s ear. The pleasant sound settled over their skin, the acknowledgement that all was going to be okay. Sherlock muttered something about the pains likely being psychosomatic (due to the trauma of the event) but held out his hand for the small white capsules that John popped from the packet. He swallowed them back, “I’m only taking them for you, Dr Watson.”

“Not a doctor yet,” John said with a chuckle, kneading his fingers gently into Sherlock’s thighs. He then pulled them away, bringing them to rest in his own lap. Sherlock frowned at the movement. “Can we talk about something serious for a moment?”

“Yeah?” Sherlock said, wincing at the inflexion at the end of his question. God, he sounded so pathetic; it was unlikely to be something bad as John was clearly still showing signs of attraction.

“I’ll make tea, first,” he spat out, quickly jumping up from the floor and heading into the kitchen. The heart rate that Sherlock had managed to keep steady rose quickly, thudding heavily against his chest as he listened to the methodical sounds of John making two cups of tea. The clinking of a spoon against porcelain only somewhat calmed his nerves.

John returned, somewhat unsteady, carrying a tray with two cups of tea on it. With shaking hands, he managed to set it on the table with only the smallest amount of tea spilling over the rim. “This is a big issue, Sherlock, so I want you to talk about it with me seriously.”

“Of course.”

“As you know, I’m getting my medical degree through the army – it’s an easy way to pay off my debts and means that I can repay my country for the amazing opportunities that it has provided me. I’ve been filling out some of the basic training forms that they’ve sent across, and I put your name and number down as my contact, should – should anything happen to me out in the field.”

“I feel honoured,” Sherlock murmured, voice dry from the realisation that his boyfriend could end up dead from an enemy bullet and he wouldn’t know until the dog-tags had been returned, body flown back in a wooden box and the whole of the army singing the national anthem as a send-off.

“That’s not the only thing,” John said quietly. “Although the next question is far happier. You’ll be passing you’re A-levels this year, and attending university the next, and I won’t be able to stay in halls after this year, so I was wondering whether you, Sherlock Holmes, would be willing to move in with me, John Watson?”

The answer that John received was in the form of a heavy kiss with his back pressed against the sofa leg.

***

Mycroft, knowing the seriousness of the topic that John wanted to discuss with Sherlock, tugged Gregory from the room by his hands and took him outside to stand in the snow.

As the soft white flakes floated down around them, coating the world in powdered icing, Mycroft spent his time looking into Gregory’s eyes, admiring the deep colour of them as he stared off into the distance.

Mycroft would’ve been able to deduce Gregory’s intentions had he been paying attention to anything other than his eyes, but he remained oblivious as Gregory turned towards him as pressed a soft kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “I love you, and I never want to lose you,” Gregory murmured, one hand resting on the small bulge in his left pocket while the other reached up to soft stroke at his boyfriend’s cheek.

“I never want to lose you, Gregory,” Mycroft confirmed, resting his own hands gently against Gregory’s hips, fingers playing with the soft fabric of his well-fitted coat (one Holmes trait had rubbed off on both boys; with Gregory it was the fashion and with John it was the curiosity and love for adventure).

“I’m glad,” Gregory replied with a chuckle, rubbing Mycroft’s cheek and wondering if that was confirmation that the next thing out of his mouth would be a good idea.

They stood like this, in the soft silence of the surrounding world, for what seemed like hours but was barely even ten minutes, the skin on Mycroft’s hands becoming pink-tinged with the cold. Gregory found his voice hoarse from the unasked question and swallowed in an attempt to gain courage.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Gregory began quietly, gaining his boyfriend's attention. “Mycroft Holmes, you are the most beautiful man that I have ever met. You’ve made me smile more times than anyone else ever has, and you’ve known me a fraction of the time. You calm me at my most panicked, and you’re by my side when your words aren’t enough to soothe me. You look me in the eyes with such sincerity and say ‘I love you’ with meaning, unlike all those out there who claimed to, and you raise my spirit when it’s so low I can’t help but tread on it. You make a clear path through _the daily grind,”_ Gregory grinned to himself. “Mycroft Holmes, the most amazing man in the universe, will you do me the honour of marrying me?”

Silence followed Gregory’s declaration, and a sour note of panic began to beat in time with his heart. Due to his head tilting towards the ground, ready for the horrible rejection of ‘no’, he wasn’t prepared to have a taller man try and bury himself in his arms, hiding a damp face into his neck and both tumbled to the ground and sat in the snow.

“That,” Mycroft whispered thickly, pushing his words through the love that was clogging his throat, “was the most beautiful thing that anyone has ever told me. Of course, I’ll marry you.”

Gregory leaned down and pressed a kiss – somewhat a smashing of smiles over a kiss – to his loved one.

My, my, the Holmes boys were happy, and just in time for Christmas too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's it finished! I plan on writing more fanfiction as I do really enjoy it, but I'm very heavy in coursework and I'm trying to get fit so there is little time for pleasure writing until the summer (Late June/Early July), so my next fic will either be a one-shot, or be a multi-chaptered fic published in a month or so.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, please leave kudos and comments if you enjoyed it!


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